THE  TRUANTS 

A.    E.    \V.    MASON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


p- 


/ 


OMf.  W  CJ^IJF.  I.1BB4RV    \fVii,  A.NGV.I.FJR 


I  See  p.  43 

"he  spoke  out  frankly,  not  counting  the  risk" 


THE    TRUANTS 


a  movel 


BY 


A.  E.  W.   MASON 

AUTHOR  OF  "four  FEATHERS " 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY  WILLIAM  HURD  LAWRENCE 


^B#^^^^ 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by  Hakper  &  Brothers. 

All  rig/Its  nserved. 
Published  October,  1904. 


CHAPTER 
I. 

II. 
III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Pamela  Mardale  Learns  a  Very  Little  His- 
tory        ^ 

Pamela  Looks  On 17 

The  Truants 28 

Tony  Stretton  Makes  a  Proposal  ....  37 

Pamela  Makes  a  Promise 48 

News  of  Tony 5^ 

The  Lady  on  the  Stairs 66 

Gideon's  Fleece 81 

The  New  Road 88 

Mr.  Chase 100 

On  the  Doggerbank m 

Warrisden  Tells  of  His  Voyage     ....  124 

Tony  Stretton  Returns  to  Stepney   .     .     .  136 
Tony   Stretton   Pays   a  Visit  to   Berkeley 

Square i47 

Mr.  Mudge  Comes  to  the  Rescue    .     .     .     .  157 

The  Foreign  Legion 165 

Callon  Leaves  England i77 

South  of  Ouargla 189 

The  Turnpike  Gate 202 

Mr.  Chase  Does  Not  Answer 213 

Callon  Redivivus 224 

Mr.  Mudge's  Confession 237 

iii 


213.1427 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  ROQUEBRUNE    REVISITED 246 

XXIV.  The  End  of  the  Experiment 258 

XXV.  Tony    Stretton     Bids    Farewell    to    the 

Legion 269 

XXVI.  Bad  News  for  Pamela 283 

XXVII.  "Balak!" 291 

XXVIII.  Homeward 304 

XXIX.  Pamela  Meets  a  Stranger 317 

XXX.  M.  GiRAUD  Again 327 

XXXI.  At  the  Reserve 334 

XXXII.  Husband  and  Wife 343 

XXXIII.  Millie's  Story 356 

XXXIV.  The  Next  Morning 363 

XXXV.  The  Little  House  in  Deanery  Street.     .  370 

XXXVI.  The  End 375 

iv 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"he  spoke  out  frankly,  not  counting  the  risk"  Frontispiece 
"  IN    THAT    OLD,   BROWN    STREET   SHE    SHONE    LIKE    A 

BRILLIANT    FLOWER  " Facing  p.  lO 

"he      STOOD      IN      FRONT      OF      WARRISDEN,      FIRMLY 

planted" "         I20 

"SUDDENLY  THERE  WAS  A  SOUND  OF  cries"  ..."  I74 
"'STEADY,'    CRIED   CAPTAIN    TAVERNAY.       '  THEY   ARB 

COMING.        FIRE    LOW !' " "         I96 

"THE  MAN  TURNED  AND  SHOWED  HIS  FACE.        IT  WAS 

LIONEL   CALLON" "         256 

"he  HAD  RAISED  AN  ARM  AS  THOUGH  TO  WARD  OFF  A 

blow" "      302 

OH,     please!'     HE    SAID,    VERY    QUIETLY,    'GET    UP 

FROM    YOUR    knees'" "       344 

V 


(t    ( 


THE   TRUANTS 


PAMELA   MARDALE   LEARNS   A   VERY   LITTLE 

HISTORY 

THERE  were  only  two  among  all  Pamela  Mardale's 
friends  who  guessed  that  anything  was  wrong 
with  her,  and  those  two  included  neither  her  father 
nor  her  mother.  Her  mother,  indeed,  might  have 
guessed  had  she  been  a  different  woman.  But  she 
was  a  woman  of  schemes  and  little  plots,  who  watched 
with  concentration  their  immediate  developments,  but 
had  no  eyes  for  any  lasting  consequence.  And  it  was 
no  doubt  as  well  for  her  peace  of  mind  that  she  never 
guessed.  But  of  the  others  it  was  unlikely  that  any 
one  would  suspect  the  truth.  For  Pamela  made  no 
outward  sign.  She  hunted  through  the  winter  from 
her  home  under  the  Croft  Hill  in  Leicestershire;  she 
went  everywhere,  as  the  saying  is,  during  the  season  in 
London;  she  held  her  own  in  her  own  world,  lacking 
neither  good  spirits  nor  the  look  of  health.  There 
were,  perhaps,  two  small  pecuHarities  which  marked 
her  off  from  her  companions.  She  was  interested  in 
things  rather  than  in  persons,  and  she  preferred  to  talk 
to  old  men  rather  than  to  youths.  But  such  points, 
taken  by  themselves,  were  not  of  an  importance  to  at- 

I 


THE    TRUANTS 

tract  attention.  Yet  there  were  two  among  her  friends 
who  suspected — Alan  Warrisden  and  the  school-master 
of  Roquebrune,  the  little  village  carved  out  of  the  hill- 
side to  the  east  of  Monte  Carlo.  The  school-master 
was  the  nearer  to  the  truth,  for  he  not  only  knew  that 
something  was  amiss,  he  suspected  what  the  some- 
thing was.  But  then  he  had  a  certain  advantage, 
since  he  had  known  Pamela  Mardale  when  she  was  a 
child.  Their  acquaintance  came  about  in  the  follow- 
ing way: 

He  was  leaning,  one  evening  of  December,  over  the 
parapet  of  the  tiny  square  beside  the  school-house, 
when  a  servant  from  the  Villa  Pontignard  approached 
him. 

"Could  M.  Giraud  make  it  convenient  to  call  at  the 
villa  at  noon  to-morrow?"  the  servant  asked.  "  Madame 
Mardale  is  anxious  to  speak  to  him." 

M.  Giraud  turned  about  with  a  glow  of  pleasure  upon 
his  face. 

"Certainly,"  he  rephed.  "But  nothing  could  be 
more  simple.  I  will  be  at  the  Villa  Pontignard  as  the 
clock  strikes." 

The  servant  bowed  and  without  another  word  paced 
away  across  the  square  and  up  the  narrow,  winding 
street  of  Roquebrune,  leaving  the  school -master  a  little 
abashed  at  his  display  of  eagerness.  M.  Giraud  rec- 
ognized that  in  one  man's  mind,  at  all  events,  he  was 
now  set  down  for  a  snob,  for  a  lackey  disguised  as  a 
school-master.  But  the  moment  of  shame  passed.  He 
had  no  doubt  as  to  the  reason  of  the  summons,  and  he 
tingled  with  pride  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  his  little 
brochure  upon  the  history  of  the  village — written  with 
what  timidity  and  printed  at  what  cost  to  his  meagre 
purse! — which  had  brought  him  recognition  from  the 


THE    TRUANTS 

lady  of  the  villa  upon  the  spur  of  the  hill.  Looking 
upward,  he  could  just  see  the  white  walls  of  the  villa 
glimmering  through  the  dusk  ;  he  could  imagine  its 
garden  of  trim  lawns  and  dark  cypresses  falling  from 
bank  to  bank  in  ordered  tiers  down  the  hill-side. 

"To-morrow  at  noon,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  and 
now  he  was  seized  with  a  shiver  of  fear  at  the  thought 
of  the  mistakes  in  behavior  which  he  was  likely  to 
make.  What  if  Madame  Mardale  asked  him  to  break- 
fast? There  would  be  unfamiliar  dishes  to  be  eaten 
with  particular  forks.  Sometimes  a  knife  should  be 
used  and  sometimes  not.  He  turned  back  to  the 
parapet  with  the  thought  that  he  had  better,  perhaps, 
send  up  a  note  in  the  morning  pleading  his  duties  at 
the  school  as  a  reason  for  breaking  his  engagement. 
But  he  was  young,  and,  as  he  looked  down  the  steep 
slope  of  rock  on  which  the  village  is  perched,  anticipa- 
tion again  got  the  better  of  fear.  He  began  to  build  up 
his  life  like  a  fairy  palace  from  the  foundation  of  this 
brief  message. 

A  long  lane  of  steps  led  winding  down  from  the 
square,  and  his  eyes  followed  it,  as  his  feet  had  often 
done,  to  the  little  railway-station  by  the  sea,  through 
which  people  journeyed  to  and  fro  between  the  great 
cities  —  westward  to  France  and  Paris,  eastward  to 
Rome  and  Italy.  His  eyes  followed  the  signal-lights 
towards  another  station  of  many  lamps  far  away  to 
the  right,  and  as  he  looked  there  blazed  out  suddenly 
other  lights  of  a  great  size  and  a  glowing  brilliancy, 
lights  which  had  the  look  of  amazing  jewels  discovered 
in  an  Eastern  cave.  These  were  the  lights  upon  the 
terrace  of  Monte  Carlo.  The  school-master  had  walked 
that  terrace  on  his  mornings  of  leisure,  had  sat  un- 
noticed on  the  benches,  all  worship  qf  the  women  and 

3 


THE   TRUANTS 

their  daintiness,  all  envy  of  the  men  and  the  composure 
of  their  manner.  He  knew  none  of  them,  and  yet 
one  of  them  had  actually  sent  for  him,  and  had  heard 
of  his  work.  He  was  to  speak  with  her  at  noon  to- 
morrow. 

Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  there  was  nothing  of  the 
lackey  under  the  school-master's  shabby  coat.  The 
visit  which  he  was  bidden  to  pay  was  to  him  not  so 
much  a  step  upward  as  outward.  Living  always  in 
this  remote,  high  village,  where  the  rock  cropped  out 
between  the  houses  and  the  streets  climbed  through 
tunnels  of  rock,  he  was  always  tormented  with  visions 
of  great  cities  and  thoroughfares  ablaze ;  he  longed  for 
the  jostle  of  men,  he  craved  for  other  companionship 
than  he  could  get  in  the  village  wine-shop  on  the  first 
floor,  as  a  fainting  man  craves  for  air.  The  stars  came 
out  above  his  head;  it  was  a  clear  night  and  they  had 
never  shone  brighter.  The  Mediterranean,  dark  and 
noiseless,  swept  out  at  his  feet  beyond  the  woods  of 
Cap  Martin.  But  he  saw  neither  the  Mediterranean 
nor  any  star.  His  eyes  turned  to  the  glowing  terrace 
upon  his  right  and  to  the  red  signal-lamps  below  the 
terrace. 

M.  Giraud  kept  his  engagement  punctually.  The 
clock  chimed  upon  the  mantel  -  piece  a  few  seconds 
after  he  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
Villa  Pontignard,  and  before  the  clock  had  stopped 
chiming  Mrs.  Mardale  came  in  to  him.  She  was  a 
tall  woman,  who  in  spite  of  her  years  still  retained  the 
elegance  of  her  youth,  but  her  face  was  hard  and  a 
trifle  querulous,  and  M.  Giraud  was  utterly  intimidated. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  had  good  manners,  and  the 
friendly  simplicity  with  which  she  greeted  him  began 
to  set  him  at  his  ease. 

4 


THE    TRUANTS 

"You  are  a  native  of  Roquebrune,  monsieur?"  said 
she. 

"No,  madame;  my  father  was  a  peasant  at  Aigues- 
Mortes.     I  was  bom  there,"  he  repHed,  frankly. 

"Yet  you  write,  if  I  may  say  so,  with  the  love  of  a 
native  for  his  village,"  she  went  on.  M.  Giraud  was  on 
the  point  of  explaining.  Mrs.  Mardale,  however,  was 
not  in  the  least  interested  in  his  explanation,  and  she 
asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"My  daughter,  monsieur,  has  an  English  governess," 
she  explained,  "but  it  seems  a  pity  that  she  should 
spend  her  winters  here  and  lose  the  chance  of  becoming 
really  proficient  in  French.  The  curd  recommended 
me  to  apply  to  you,  and  I  sent  for  you  to  see  whether 
we  could  arrange  that  you  should  read  history  with 
her  in  French  during  your  spare  hours." 

M.  Giraud  felt  his  head  turning.  Here  was  his 
opportunity  so  long  dreamed  of  come  at  last.  It  might 
be  the  beginning  of  a  career;  it  was,  at  all  events,  that 
first  difficult  step  outward.  He  was  to  be  the  teach- 
er in  appearance;  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  knew 
that  he  was  to  be  the  pupil.  He  accepted  the  offer  with 
enthusiasm,  and  the  arrangements  were  made.  Three 
afternoons  a  week  he  was  to  spend  an  hour  at  the  Villa 
Pontignard. 

"Well,  I  hope  the  plan  will  succeed,"  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
dale,  but  she  spoke  in  a  voice  which  showed  that  she 
had  no  great  hopes  of  success.  And  as  M.  Giraud  re- 
plied that  he  would  at  all  events  do  his  best,  she  re- 
joined, plaintively: 

"It  is  not  of  you,  monsieur,  that  I  have  any  doubts. 
But  you  do  not  know  my  daughter.  She  will  learn 
nothing  which  she  does  not  want  to  learn ;  she  will  not 
endure  any  governess  who  is  not  entirely  her  slave; 

5 


THE   TRUANTS 

and  she  is  fifteen,  and  she  really  must  learn  some- 
thing." 

Pamela  Mardale,  indeed,  was  at  this  time  the  despair 
of  her  mother.  Mrs.  Mardale  had  mapped  out  for  her 
daughter  an  ideal  career.  She  was  to  be  a  model  of 
decorum  in  the  Early  Victorian  style,  at  once  an 
ornament  for  a  drawing-room  and  an  excellent  house- 
keeper, and  she  was  subsequently  to  make  a  brilliant 
marriage.  The  weak  point  of  the  scheme  was  that 
it  left  Pamela  out  of  the  reckoning.  There  was  her 
passion  for  horses,  for  one  thing,  and  her  distinct  re- 
fusal, besides,  to  sit  quietly  in  any  drawing-room. 
When  she  was  a  child,  horses  had  been  persons  to 
Pamela  rather  than  animals,  and,  as  her  conduct 
showed,  persons  preferable  by  far  to  human  beings. 
Visitors  to  the  house  under  Croft  Hill  were  at  times 
promised  a  sight  of  Pamela,  and,  indeed,  they  some- 
times did  see  a  girl  in  a  white  frock,  with  long,  black 
legs  and  her  hair  tumbled  all  over  her  forehead,  neigh- 
ing and  prancing  at  them  from  behind  the  gate  of  the 
stable-yard.  But  they  did  not  see  her  at  closer  quar- 
ters than  that,  and  it  was  certain  that,  if  by  any  chance 
her  lessons  were  properly  learned,  they  had  been  learn- 
ed upon  the  com  -  bin  in  the  stables.  Portraits  of 
Pamela  at  the  age  of  nine  remain,  and  they  show  a  girl 
who  was  very  pretty,  but  who  might  quite  well  have 
been  a  boy,  with  a  mass  of  unruly  dark  hair,  a  pair  of 
active  dark  eyes,  and  a  good-humored  face  alertly 
watching  for  any  mischief  which  might  come  its  way. 

Something  of  the  troubles  which  M.  Giraud  was 
likely  to  find  ahead  of  him  Mrs.  Mardale  disclosed  that 
morning,  and  the  school-master  returned  to  his  house 
filled  with  apprehensions.  The  apprehensions,  how- 
ever, were  not  justified.     The  httle  school-master  was 

6 


THE   TRUANTS 

so  shy,  so  timid,  that  Pamela  was  disarmed.  She 
could  be  gentle  when  she  chose,  and  she  chose  now. 
She  saw,  too,  M.  Giraud's  anxiety  to  justify  her  mother's 
choice  of  him,  and  she  determined,  with  a  sense  of 
extreme  virtue,  to  be  a  credit  to  his  teaching.  They 
became  friends,  and  thus  one  afternoon  when  they  had 
taken  their  books  out  into  the  garden  of  the  villa,  M. 
Giraud  confided  to  her  the  history  of  the  brochure 
which  had  made  them  acquainted. 

"It  was  not  love  for  Roquebrune  which  led  me  to 
write  it,"  he  said.  "It  was,  on  the  contrary,  my 
discontent.  I  was  tortured  with  longings;  I  was  not 
content  with  the  children's  lessons  for  my  working 
hours  and  the  wine-shop  for  my  leisure.  I  took  long 
walks  over  Cap  Martin  to  Mentone,  along  the  Corniche 
road  to  La  Turbie,  and  up  Mont  Agel.  But  still  I  had 
my  longings  as  my  constant  companions,  and,  since 
everywhere  I  saw  traces  of  antiquity,  I  wrote  this  little 
history  as  a  relief.  It  kept  my  thoughts  away  from 
the  great  world." 

The  garden  ran  here  to  a  point  at  the  extreme  end  of 
that  outcropping  spur  of  rock  on  which  the  villa  was 
built.  They  were  facing  westward,  and  the  sun  was 
setting  behind  the  hills.  It  lay  red  upon  the  Mediter- 
ranean on  their  left,  but  the  ravine  and  front  were 
already  dark,  and  down  the  hill-side  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  were  lengthening.  At  their  feet,  a  long  way 
below,  a  stream  tumbled  and  roared  among  the  olean- 
ders in  the  depths  of  the  ravine.  Pamela  sat  gazing 
downward,  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

"The  great  world,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  of  eager- 
ness.    "I  wonder  what  it's  like." 

That  afternoon  marked  a  distinct  step  in  their 
friendship,  and    thereafter,  in    the   intervals   of   their 

7 


THE   TRUANTS 

reading,  they  talked  continually  upon  this  one  point 
they  had  in  common  —  their  curiosity  as  to  the  Hfe 
of  the  world  beyond  their  village.  But  it  happened 
that  Pamela  did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking,  and 
one  afternoon  that  fact  occurred  to  her. 

"  You  always  listen  now,  monsieur,"  she  said.  "  Why 
have  you  grown  so  silent?" 

"You  know  more  than  I  do,  mademoiselle." 

"I?"  she  exclaimed,  in  surprise.  "  I  only  know  about 
horses."  Then  she  laughed.  " Really,  we  both  know 
nothing.     We  can  only  guess  and  guess." 

And  that  was  the  truth.  Pamela's  ideas  of  the 
world  were  as  visionary,  as  dreamlike  as  his,  but  they 
were  not  his,  as  he  was  quick  to  recognize.  The 
instincts  of  her  class,  her  traditions,  the  influence  of 
her  friends,  were  all  audible  in  her  voice  as  well  as  in 
her  words.  To  her  the  world  was  a  great  flower-garden 
of  pleasure  with  plenty  of  room  for  horses.  To  him  it 
was  a  crowded  place  of  ennobling  strife. 

"But  it's  pleasant  work  guessing,"  she  continued. 
"Isn't  it?     Then  why  have  you  stopped?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  mademoiselle.  I  am  beginning  to 
guess  through  your  eyes." 

The  whistle  of  a  train,  the  train  from  Paris,  mounted 
through  the  still  air  to  their  ears. 

"Well,"  said  Pamela,  with  a  shrug  of  impatience, 
"we  shall  both  know  the  truth  some  time." 

"You  will,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  school-master, 
suddenly  falling  out  of  his  dream. 

Pamela  looked  quickly  at  him.  The  idea  that  he 
would  be  left  behind,  that  he  would  stay  here  all  his 
life  listening  to  the  sing-song  drone  of  the  children 
in  the  school-room,  teaching  over  and  over  again  with 
an   infinite   weariness   the   same   elementary   lessons, 

8 


THE    TRUANTS 

until  he  became  shabby  and  worn  as  the  lesson-books 
he  handled,  had  never  struck  her  till  this  moment. 
The  trouble  which  clouded  his  face  was  reflected  by 
sympathy  upon  hers. 

"But  you  won't  stay  here,"  she  said,  gently.  "Oh 
no!  Let  me  think!"  And  she  thought  with  a  child's 
oblivion  of  obstacles  and  a  child's  confidence.  She 
imparted  the  wise  result  of  her  reflections  to  M.  Giraud 
the  next  afternoon. 

He  came  to  the  garden  with  his  eyes  fevered  and 
his  face  drawn. 

"You  are  ill?"  said  Pamela.  "We  will  not  work 
to-day." 

"It's  nothing,"  he  replied. 

"Tell  me,"  said  she. 

M.  Giraud  looked  out  across  the  valley. 

"Two  travellers  came  up  to  Roquebrune  yesterday. 
I  met  them  as  I  walked  home  from  here.  I  spoke  to 
thein  and  showed  them  the  village,  and  took  them  by 
the  short  cut  of  the  steps  down  to  the  railway-station. 
They  were  from  London.  They  talked  of  London  and 
of  Paris.  It's  as  well  visitors  come  up  to  Roquebrune 
rarely.  I  have  not  slept  all  night,"  and  he  clasped 
and  unclasped  his  hands. 

"Hannibal  crossed  the  Alps,"  said  Pamela.  "I 
read  it  in  your  book,"  and  then  she  shook  a  finger  at 
him,  just  as  the  school-master  might  have  done  to  one 
of  his  refractory  pupils. 

"Listen,"  said  she.     "I  have  thought  it  all  out." 

The  school-master  composed  himself  into  the  atten- 
tive attitude  of  a  pupil. 

"You  are  to  become  a  deputy." 

That  was  the  solution  of  the  problem  Pamela  saw 
no  difficulties.     He  would  need  a  dress-suit,  of  course, 

9 


THE   TRUANTS 

for  official  occasions,  which  she  understood  were  nu- 
merous. A  horse,  too,  would  be  of  use,  but  that  didn't 
matter  so  much.  The  horse  was  regretfully  given  up. 
It  might  come  later.  He  must  get  elected  first,  never 
mind  how.  In  a  word,  he  was  as  good  as  a  deputy 
already.  And  from  a  deputy  to  the  President  of  the 
French  Republic,  the  step,  after  all,  was  not  so  very 
long.  "Though  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  approve 
of  repiiblics,"  said  Pamela,  very  seriously. 

However,  that  was  the  best  she  could  do  in  the  way 
of  mapping  out  his  future,  and  the  school-master  lis- 
tened, seeing  the  world  through  her  eyes.  Thus  three 
winters  passed,  and  Pamela  learned  a  very  little  his- 
tory. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  third  winter  the  history  books 
were  put  away.  Pamela  was  now  eighteen  and  look- 
ing eagerly  forward  to  her  first  season  in  London. 
And  no  doubt  frocks  and  hats  occupied  more  of  her 
thoughts  than  did  the  fortune  of  the  school-master. 
Some  remorse  for  her  forgetfulness  seized  her  the  day 
before  she  went  away.  It  was  a  morning  of  spring, 
and  the  school-master  saw  her  coming  down  the  dark, 
narrow  streets  towards  him.  She  was  tall  beyond  the 
average,  but  without  ungainliness,  long  of  limb  and 
lightly  built,  and  she  walked  with  the  very  step  of 
youth.  Her  dark  hair  swept  in  two  heavy  waves 
above  her  forehead  and  was  coiled  down  behind  on 
the  back  of  her  neck.  Her  throat  rose  straight  and 
slim  from  the  firm  shoulders,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with 
anticipation.  Though  her  hair  was  dark,  she  was  not 
sallow.  Her  face  was  no  less  fresh  and  clear  than 
were  her  eyes,  and  a  soft  color  like  the  bloom  of  a  fruit 
brightened  her  cheeks.  In  that  old,  brown  street  she 
shone  like  a  brilliant  flower,  and  Giraud,  as  he  watched 

lO 


IN   THAT    OLD,   BROWN    STREET    SHE    SHONE    LIKE    A    BRILLIANT 

FLOWER  " 


THE   TRUANTS 

her,  felt  all  at  once  that  he  could  have  no  place  in  her 
life,  and  in  his  humility  he  turned  aside.  But  she  ran 
after  him  and  caught  him  up. 

"I  am  going  to-morrow,"  she  said,  and  she  tried  to 
keep  the  look  of  happiness  out  of  her  eyes,  the  thrill 
out  of  her  voice.     And  she  failed. 

"It  is  good-bye,  then,"  said  he. 

"For  a  little  while.  I  shall  come  back  to  Roque- 
brune  in  December." 

The  school-master  smiled. 

"I  shall  look  forward  from  to-day  until  that  month 
comes.     You  will  have  much  to  tell  me." 

"Yes,  shan't  I?"  she  cried,  and  then,  lest  her 
eagerness  should  hurt  her  friend,  she  added,  "But  I 
shall  not  forget  our  quiet  afternoons  on  the  garden 
terrace." 

The  recollection  of  them,  however,  was  not  strong 
enough  to  check  either  her  thoughts  or  their  utterance. 
Later  on  perhaps,  in  after  years,  she  might  in  her  mus- 
ings return  to  that  terrace  and  the  speculations  they 
indulged  in,  and  the  fairy  palaces  they  built,  with  an 
envy  of  the  ignorance  and  the  high  thoughts  of  youth. 
To-day  she  was  all  alert  to  grasp  the  future  in  her 
hands.  One  can  imagine  her  looking  much  as  she 
looked  in  those  portraits  of  her  childhood. 

"News  of  the  great  world,"  she  cried.  "I  shall 
bring  it  back.  We  will  talk  it  over  in  Roquebrune 
and  correct  our  guesses.     For  I  shall  know." 

As  a  fact  they  never  did  talk  over  her  news,  but  that 
she  could  not  foresee.  She  went  on  her  way  with  a 
smile  upon  her  face:  all  confidence  and  courage  and 
expectation,  a  brilliant  image  of  youth.  Giraud,  as 
he  watched  her,  the  proud  poise  of  her  head,  the  light, 
springing  step,  the  thing  of  beauty   and  gentleness 

II 


THE  TRUANTS 

which  she  was,  breathed  a  prayer  that  no  harm  might 
come  to  her  and  no  grief  ever  sadden  her  face. 

The  next  morning  she  went  away,  and  the  school- 
master lost  his  one  glimpse  of  the  outer  world.  But 
he  lived  upon  the  recollections  of  it  and  took  again  to 
his  long  walks  on  the  Comiche  road.  The  time  hung 
heavily  upon  his  hands.  He  hungered  for  news,  and 
no  news  came;  and  when  in  the  month  of  December  he 
noticed  that  the  shutters  were  opened  in  the  Villa 
Pontignard,  and  that  there  was  a  stir  of  servants 
about  the  house,  he  felt  that  the  shutters  were  being 
opened  after  a  long,  dark  time  from  his  one  window 
on  the  outside  world.  He  frequented  the  little  station 
from  that  moment.  No  "  Rapide  "  passed  from  France 
on  its  way  to  Italy  during  his  leisure  hours  but  he 
was  there  to  watch  its  passengers.  Mrs.  Mardale  came 
first,  and  a  fortnight  afterwards  Pamela  descended 
from  a  carriage  with  her  maid. 

Giraud  watched  her  with  a  thrill  of  longing.  It 
was  not  merely  his  friend  who  had  returned,  but  his 
instructor,  with  new  and  wonderful  knowledge  added 
to  the  old. 

Then  came  his  first  chilling  moment  of  disillusion. 
It  was  quite  evident  that  she  saw  him  as  she  was  step- 
ping onto  the  platform.  Her  eyes  went  straight  to 
his — and  yet  she  turned  away  without  the  slightest 
sign  of  recognition  and  busied  herself  about  her  lug- 
gage. The  world  had  spoiled  her.  That  was  his  first 
thought,  but  he  came  to  a  truer  understanding  after- 
wards. And,  indeed,  that  thought  had  barely  become 
definite  in  his  mind,  when  she  turned  again,  and,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand,  came  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"You  are  well?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

12 


THE   TRUANTS 

And  they  walked  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  to 
Roquebrune  talking  banalities.  She  gave  him  none 
of  the  news  for  which  he  longed,  and  they  spoke  not 
at  all  of  the  career  which  together  they  had  mapped 
out  for  him.  All  their  long  talks  upon  the  terrace, 
their  plans  and  their  speculations,  seemed  in  an  instant 
to  Giraud  to  have  become  part  of  a  pleasant,  very 
foolish,  and  very  distant  past.  He  was  aware  of  the 
vast  gulf  between  them.  With  a  girl's  inimitable 
quickness  to  adapt  herself  to  new  surroundings,  she 
had  acquired  in  the  few  months  of  her  absence  the 
ease,  the  polish,  and  the  armor  of  a  woman  of  the 
world.  He  was  still  the  village  school-master,  the 
peasant  tortured  with  vain  aspirations,  feeding  upon 
vain  dreams ;  and  in  this  moment  he  saw  himself  very 
clearly.  Her  silence  upon  their  plan  helped  him  to 
see  himself  thus.  Had  she  still  beheved  in  that  imag- 
ined career,  surely  she  would  have  spoken  of  it.  In  a 
word,  he  was  still  looking  at  the  world  through  her 
eyes. 

"You  must  come  up  to  the  villa,"  she  said.  "I 
shall  look  forward  to  your  coming." 

They  were  in  the  little  square  by  the  school-house, 
and  he  took  the  words  for  his  dismissal.  She  went 
up  the  hill  alone,  and  slowly,  like  one  that  is  tired. 
Giraud,  watching  her,  could  not  but  compare  her  with 
the  girl  who  had  come  lightly  down  that  street  a  few 
months  ago.  It  dawned  upon  him  that,  though  knowl- 
edge had  been  acquired,  something  had  gone,  some- 
thing perhaps  more  valuable,  the  elasticity  from  her 
step,  the  eagerness  from  her  eyes. 

Giraud  did  not  go  up  to  the  villa  of  his  own  accord, 
but  he  was  asked  to  lunch  in  a  week's  time,  and  after 
lunch  Pamela  and  he  went  out  into  the  garden.     In- 

13 


THE   TRUANTS 

stinctively  they  walked  down  to  that  corner  on  the 
point  of  the  bluff  which  overhung  the  ravine  and  the 
white  torrent  among  the  oleanders  in  its  depths. 
They  had  come,  indeed,  to  the  bench  on  which  they 
used  to  sit  before  Pamela  was  quite  aware  of  the  di- 
rection their  steps  had  taken.  She  drew  back  sud- 
denly as  she  raised  her  head. 

"Oh  no,  not  here,"  she  cried,  and  she  moved  away 
quickly  with  a  look  of  pain.  Giraud  suddenly  under- 
stood why  she  had  turned  away  at  the  railway -station. 
Here  they  had  dreamed,  and  the  reality  had  shown 
the  dreams  to  be  bitterly  false,  so  false  that  the  very 
place  where  they  had  dreamed  had  become  by  its  as- 
sociations a  place  of  pain.  She  had  needed  for  herself 
that  first  moment  when  she  had  stepped  down  from 
the  carriage. 

"The  world  must  be  the  home  of  great  troubles," 
said  Giraud,  sadly. 

"And  how  do  you  know  that?"  Pamela  asked,  with 
a  smile. 

"From  you,"  he  replied,  simply. 

The  answer  was  unexpected.  Pamela  stopped  and 
looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"From  me?     I  have  said  nothing — nothing  at  all." 

"Yet  I  know.  How  else  should  I  know  except  from 
you,  since  through  you  alone  I  see  the  world?" 

"A  home  of  great  troubles?"  she  repeated,  speaking 
lightly.  "Not  for  all.  You  are  serious,  my  friend, 
this  afternoon,  and  you  should  not  be,  for  have  I  not 
come  back  ?" 

The  school-master  was  not  deceived  by  her  evasion. 
There  had  come  a  gravity  into  her  manner,  and  a 
womanliness  into  her  face,  in  a  degree  more  than  nat- 
ural at  her  years. 

14 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Let  us  talk  of  you  for  a  change,"  said  she. 

"Well,  and  what  shall  we  say?"  asked  Giraud,  and 
a  constraint  fell  upon  them  both. 

"We  must  forget  those  fine  plans,"  he  continued,  at 
length.  "Is  it  not  so?  I  think  I  have  learned  that, 
too,  from  you." 

"I  have  said  nothing,"  she  interrupted,  quickly. 

"Precisely,"  said  he,  with  a  smile.  "The  school  at 
Roquebrune  will  send  no  deputy  to  Paris." 

"  Oh!  why  not  ?"  said  Pamela,  but  there  was  no  con- 
viction in  her  yoice.  Giraud  was  not  of  the  stern 
stuff 

"To  break  his  birth's  invidious  bar." 

He  had  longings,  but  there  was  the  end. 

"At  all  events,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  with  a 
great  earnestness,  "we  shall  be  friends  always,  what- 
ever happens." 

The  words  were  the  death-knell  to  the  school-mas- 
ter's aspirations.  They  conveyed  so  much  more  than 
was  actually  said.     He  took  them  bravely  enough. 

"That  is  a  good  thing,"  he  said,  in  all  sincerity. 
"If  I  stay  here  all  my  life,  I  shall  still  have  the  mem- 
ory of  the  years  when  I  taught  you  history.  I  shall 
know,  though  I  do  not  see  you,  that  we  are  friends. 
It  is  a  great  thing  for  me." 

"For  me,  too,"  said  Pamela,  looking  straight  into 
his  eyes,  and  she  meant  her  words  no  less  than  he  had 
meant  his.  Yet  to  both  they  had  the  sound  of  a  fare- 
well. And  in  a  way  they  were.  They  were  the  fare- 
well to  the  afternoons  upon  the  terrace;  they  closed 
the  door  upon  their  house  of  dreams. 

Giraud  leaned  that  evening  over  the  parapet  in  the 
little  square  of  Roquebrune.     The  Mediterranean  lay 

15 


THE   TRUANTS 

dark  and  quiet  far  below,  the  terrace  of  Monte  Carlo 
glowed,  and  the  red  signal-lamps  pointed  out  the  way 
to  Paris.  But  he  was  no  longer  thinking  of  his  fallen 
plans.  He  was  thinking  of  the  girl  up  there  in  the 
villa  who  had  been  struck  by  some  blind  blow  of 
Destiny,  who  had  grown  a  woman  before  her  time.  It 
was  a  pity,  it  was  a  loss  in  the  general  sum  of  things 
which  make  for  joy. 

He  had,  of  course,  only  his  suspicions  to  go  upon. 
But  they  were  soon  strengthened.  For  Pamela  fell 
into  ill-health,  and  the  period  of  ill-health  lasted  all 
that  winter.  After  those  two  years  had  passed  she 
disappeared  for  a  while  altogether  out  of  Giraud's 
sight.  She  came  no  more  to  the  Villa  Pontignard, 
but  stayed  with  her  father  and  her  horses  at  her  home 
in  Leicestershire.  Her  mother  came  alone  to  Roque- 
brune. 


II 

PAMELA   LOOKS   ON 

ALAN  WARRISDEN  was  one  of  the  two  men  who 
J'\  had  walked  up  to  Roquebrune  on  that  afternoon 
of  which  M.  Giraud  spoke.  But  it  was  not  until 
Pamela  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty  that  he  made 
her  acquaintance  at  Lady  Millingham's  house  in 
Berkeley  Square.  He  took  her  down  to  dinner,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  paid  no  particular  attention  either  to 
her  looks  or  her  conversation.  His  neighbor  upon  the 
other  side  happened  to  be  a  friend  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  some  while,  and  for  a  good  part  of  the  dinner 
he  talked  to  her.  A  few  days  afterwards,  however, 
he  called  upon  Lady  Millingham,  and  she  asked  at 
once,  quite  eagerly: 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  Pamela  Mardale?" 
Warrisden  was  rather  at  a  loss.  He  was  evidently 
expected  to  answer  with  enthusiasm,  and  he  had  not 
any  very  definite  recollections  on  which  enthusiasm 
could  be  based.  He  did  his  best,  however;  but  he 
was  unconvincing.  Lady  Millingham  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  frowned.  She  had  been  married  pre- 
cisely a  year  and  was  engaged  in  plans  for  marrying 
off  all  her  friends  with  the  greatest  possible  despatch. 
"I  shall  send  you  in  with  somebody  quite  old  the 
next  time  you  dine  here,"  she  said,  severely,  and  she 
discoursed  at  some  length  upon  Pamela's  charms. 
"She  loves  horses  and  yet  she's  not  a  bit  horsy,"  she 

17 


THE   TRUANTS 

said,  in  conclusion,  "and  there's  really  nothing  better 
than  that.  And  just  heaps  of  men  have  wanted  to 
marry  her."  She  leaned  back  against  her  sofa  and 
contemplated  Warrisden  with  silent  scorn.  She  had 
set  her  heart  upon  this  marriage  more  than  upon  any 
other.  Of  all  the  possible  marriages  in  London,  there 
was  not  one,  to  her  mind,  so  suitable  as  this.  Pamela 
Mardale  came  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  com- 
moners in  Leicestershire.  The  family  was  not  well 
off,  the  estate  had  shrunk  year  by  year,  and  what  was 
left  was  mortgaged,  owing  in  some  degree  to  that  villa 
at  Roquebrune  upon  which  Mrs.  Mardale  insisted. 
Warrisden,  on  the  other  hand,  was  more  than  well  off, 
his  family  was  known,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight 
he  was  still  dividing  his  life  between  the  season  in 
London  and  shooting  expeditions  about  the  world. 
And  he  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  might  do  something 
more. 

That  visit  had  its  results.  Warrisden  met  Pamela 
Mardale  again,  and  realized  that  Lady  Millingham's 
indignation  had  been  justified.  At  the  end  of  that 
season  he  proposed  and  was  gently  refused.  But  if 
he  was  slow  to  move  he  was  also  firm  to  persevere. 
He  hunted  with  the  Quorn  that  winter,  and  during  the 
following  season  he  was  persistently  but  unobtrusive- 
ly at  her  elbow;  so  that  Pamela  came,  at  all  events,  to 
count  upon  him  as  a  most  reliable  friend.  Having 
duly  achieved  that  place  in  her  thoughts,  he  disap- 
peared for  ten  months  and  returned  to  town  one  after- 
noon in  the  last  week  of  June.  There  were  letters 
waiting  for  him  in  his  rooms,  and  among  them  a  card 
from  Lady  Millingham  inviting  him  to  a  dance  upon 
that  night.  At  eleven  o'clock  his  coup^  turned  out 
of  Piccadilly  and  entered  Berkeley  Square.     At  the 

18 


THE   TRUANTS 

bottom  of  the  square  the  hghted  windows  of  the  house 
blazed  out  upon  the  night,  the  balconies  were  banked 
with  flowers,  and  behind  the  flowers,  silhouetted 
against  the  light,  were  visible  the  thronged  faces  of 
men  and  women.  Warrisden  leaned  forward  scruti- 
nizing the  shapes  of  the  heads,  the  contours  of  the 
faces.  His  sight,  sharpened  by  long  practice  over 
wide  horizons,  was  of  the  keenest;  he  could  see,  even 
at  that  distance,  the  flash  of  jewels  on  neck  and 
shoulder.  But  the  face  he  looked  for  was  not 
there. 

Lady  Millingham,  however,  set  his  mind  at  ease. 

"You  are  back,  then?"  she  cried. 

"This  afternoon." 

"You  will  find  friends  here." 

Warrisden  passed  on  into  the  reception-rooms.  It 
seemed  to  him,  indeed,  that  all  the  friends  he  had  ever 
made  were  gathered  to  this  one  house  on  this  particu- 
lar evening.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and  his  height  made 
him  noticeable  upon  most  occasions.  He  was  the 
more  noticeable  now  by  reason  of  his  sunburn  and  a 
certain  look  of  exhilaration  upon  his  face.  The  sea- 
son was  drawing  to  its  end,  and  brown  faces  were  not 
so  usual  but  that  the  eyes  turned  to  them.  He  spoke, 
however,  the  fewest  possible  words  to  the  men  who 
greeted  him,  and  he  did  not  meet  the  eyes  of  any 
woman.  Yet  he  saw  the  women,  and  was  in  definite 
quest  of  one  of  them.  That  might  have  been  noticed 
by  a  careful  observer,  for  whenever  he  saw  a  man 
older  than  the  rest  talking  to  a  girl  he  quickened  his 
pace  that  he  might  the  sooner  see  that  girl's  face. 
He  barely  looked  into  the  ballroom  at  all,  but  kept 
to  the  corridors,  and  at  last,  in  a  doorway,  came  face 
to  face  with  Pamela  Mardale.     He  saw  her  face  light 

19 


THE   TRUANTS 

up,  and  the  hand  held  out  to  him  was  even  eagerly- 
extended. 

"Have  you  a  dance  to  spare?" 

Pamela  looked  quickly  round  upon  her  neighbors. 

"Yes,  this  one,"  she  answered.  She  bowed  to  her 
companion,  a  man,  as  Warrisden  expected,  much 
older  than  herself,  and  led  the  way  at  once  towards 
the  balcony.  Warrisden  saw  a  youth  emerge  from 
the  throng  and  come  towards  them.  Pamela  was 
tall,  and  she  used  her  height  at  this  moment.  She 
looked  him  in  the  face  with  so  serene  an  indifference 
that  the  youth  drew  back  disconcerted.  Pamela  was 
deliberately  cutting  her  partners. 

Another  man  might  have  built  upon  the  act,  but 
Warrisden  was  shrewd,  and  shrewdness  had  taught 
him  long  since  to  go  warily  in  thought  where  Pamela 
Mardale  was  concerned.  She  might  merely  be  angry. 
He  walked  by  her  side  and  said  nothing.  Even  when 
they  were  seated  on  the  balcony  he  left  it  for  her  to 
speak  first.  She  was  sitting  upon  the  outside  against 
the  railing,  so  that  the  light  from  the  windows  streamed 
full  upon  her  face.  He  watched  it,  looking  for  the 
change  which  he  desired.  But  it  had  still  the  one 
fault  he  found  with  it.  It  was  still  too  sedate,  too 
womanly  for  her  years. 

"I  heard  of  you,"  she  said.  "You  were  shooting 
woodcock  in  Dalmatia." 

"That  was  at  Christmas." 

"Yes.     You  were  hurt  there." 

"Not  seriously,"  he  repHed.  "A  sheep-dog  at- 
tacked me.  They  are  savage  brutes,  and  indeed  they 
have  to  be,  there  are  so  many  wolves.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  if  you  are  attacked  you  mustn't  kill  the  dog  or 
there's  trouble." 

20 


THE  TRUANTS 

"I  heard  of  you  again.  You  were  at  Quetta,  get- 
ting together  a  caravan." 

"That  was  in  February.  I  crossed  by  the  new 
trade-route  from  Quetta  to  Seistan." 

She  had  spoken  in  an  indefinite  tone,  which  left  him 
with  no  clew  to  her  thoughts.  Now,  however,  she 
turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice, 
which  was  very  gentle: 

"Don't  you  think  you  might  have  told  me  that 
3^ou  were  going  away  for  a  year?" 

Warrisden  had  gone  away  deliberately,  and  as  de- 
liberately he  had  abstained  from  telling  her  of  his  in- 
tention. He  had  no  answer  to  make  to  her  question, 
and  he  did  not  attempt  to  invent  one.  He  sat  still 
and  looked  at  her.  She  followed  the  question  with 
another. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  kinder  if  you 
had  written  to  me  once  or  twice,  instead  of  letting  me 
hear  about  you  from  any  chance  acquaintance?" 

Again  he  made  no  answer.  For  he  had  deliberately 
abstained  from  writing.  The  gentleness  with  which 
she  spoke  was  the  most  hopeful  sign  for  him  which  she 
had  made  that  evening.  He  had  expected  a  harsher 
accusation.  For  Pamela  made  her  claims  upon  her 
friends.  They  must  put  her  first  or  there  was  likely 
to  be  a  deal  of  trouble. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders, 
"I  hope  you  enjoyed  it." 

"Yes.  I  wish  I  could  have  thought  you  would  have 
enjoyed  it  too.     But  you  wouldn't  have." 

"No,"  she  answered,  listlessly. 

Warrisden  was  silent.  He  had  expected  the  an- 
swer, but  he  was  none  the  less  disappointed  to  receive 
it.     To  him  there  was  no  century  in  the  history  of  the 

21 


THE   TRUANTS 

world  comparable  to  that  in  which  he  lived.  It  had 
its  faults,  of  course.  It  was  ugly  and  a  trifle  feverish, 
but  to  men  of  his  stamp,  the  men  with  means  and 
energy,  a  new  world  with  countless  opportunities  had 
been  opened  up.  Asia  and  Africa  were  theirs,  and 
the  farthest  islands  of  the  sea.  Pamela,  however, 
turned  her  back  on  it.  The  new  trade-route  to  Seistan 
had  no  message  for  her.  She  looked  with  envy  upon 
an  earlier  century. 

"Of  course,"  he  resumed,  "it's  pleasant  to  come 
back,  if  only  as  a  preparation  for  going  away  again." 

And  then  Pamela  turned  on  him  with  her  eyes  wide 
open  and  a  look  of  actual  trouble  upon  her  face. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  emphasis.  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  lowered  her  voice.  "You  have  no  right  to 
work  upon  people  and  make  them  your  friends,  if  you 
mean,  when  you  have  made  them  your  friends,  to  go 
away  without  a  word  for  ever  so  long.  I  have  missed 
you  very  much." 

"I  wanted  you  to  miss  me,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  I  thought  so.  But  it  wasn't  fair,"  she  said, 
gently.  "You  see,  I  have  been  quite  fair  with  you. 
If  you  had  gone  away  at  once,  if  you  had  left  me 
alone  when  I  said  'no'  to  you  two  years  ago,  then  I 
should  have  no  right  to  complain,  I  should  have  no 
right  to  call  you  back.  But  it's  different  now,  and 
you  willed  that  it  should  be  different.  You  stayed 
by  me.  Whenever  I  turned,  there  were  you  at  my 
side.  You  taught  me  to  count  on  you  as  I  count  on 
no  one  else.  Yes,  that's  true.  Well,  then,  you  have 
lost  the  right  to  turn  your  back  now  just  when  it 
pleases  you." 

"It  wasn't  because  it  pleased  me." 

"No;  I  admit  that,"  she  agreed.     "It  was  to  make 

22 


THE   TRUANTS 

an  experiment  on  me,  but  the  experiment  was  made 
at  my  expense.  For,  after  all,  you  enjoyed  yourself," 
she  added,  with  a  laugh. 

Warrisden  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"It's  quite  true,"  he  said.  "I  did."  Then  his 
voice  dropped  to  the  same  serious  tone  in  which  she 
had  spoken.  "Why  not  say  the  experiment  succeed- 
ed ?     Couldn't  you  say  that  ?" 

Pamela  shook  her  head. 

"No.  I  can  give  you  no  more  now  than  I  gave  you 
a  year  ago,  two  years  ago,  and  that  is  not  enough. 
Oh,  I  know,"  she  continued,  hurriedly,  as  she  saw  that 
he  was  about  to  interrupt.  "Lots  of  women  are  con- 
tent to  begin  with  friendship.  How  they  can  puzzles 
me.  But  I  know  they  do  begin  with  nothing  more 
than  that,  and  very  often  it  works  out  very  well.  The 
friendship  becomes  more  than  friendship.  But  I 
can't  begin  that  way.  I  would  if  I  could,  but  I 
can  t. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  sat  for  a  while  with 
her  hands  upon  her  knees  in  an  attitude  extraordi- 
narily still.  The  jingle  of  harness  in  the  square  rose  to 
Warrisden's  ears,  the  clamor  of  the  town  came  muffled 
from  the  noisy  streets.  He  looked  upward  to  the 
tender  blue  of  a  summer  sky,  where  the  stars  shone 
like  silver;  and  he  leaned  back  disheartened.  He 
had  returned  to  London  and  nothing  was  changed. 
There  was  the  same  busy  life  vociferous  in  its  streets, 
and  this  girl  still  sat  in  the  midst  of  it  with  the  same 
lassitude  and  quiescence.  She  seemed  to  be  waiting, 
not  at  all  for  something  new  to  happen,  but  for  the 
things  which  were  happening  to  cease,  waiting  with 
the  indifference  of  the  very  old.  And  she  was  quite 
young.     She  sat  with  the  delicate  profile  of  her  face 

23 


THE   TRUANTS 

outlined  against  the  darkness;  the  color  of  youth  was 
in  her  cheeks;  the  slender  column  of  her  throat,  the 
ripple  of  her  dark  hair,  the  grace  of  her  attitude  claim- 
ed her  for  youth;  she  was  fragrant  with  it  from  head 
to  foot.  And  yet  it  seemed  that  there  was  no  youth 
in  her  blood. 

"So  nothing  has  changed  for  you  during  these 
months,"  he  said,  deeply  disappointed. 

She  turned  her  face  quietly  to  him  and  smiled. 
"No,"  she  answered,  "there  has  been  no  new  road 
for  me  from  Quetta  to  Seistan.     I  still  look  on." 

There  was  the  trouble.  She  just  looked  on,  and  to 
his  thinking  it  was  not  right  that  at  her  age  she  should 
do  no  more.  A  girl  nowadays  had  so  many  privileges, 
so  many  opportunities  denied  to  her  grandmother,  she 
could  do  so  much  more,  she  had  so  much  more  free- 
dom, and  yet  Pamela  insisted  upon  looking  on.  If 
she  had  shown  distress,  it  would  have  been  better. 
But  no.  She  lived  without  deep  feeling  of  any  kind, 
in  a  determined  isolation.  She  had  built  up  a  fence 
about  herself,  and  within  it  she  sat  untouched  and 
alone. 

It  was  likely  that  no  one  else  in  the  wide  circle  of 
her  acquaintances  had  noticed  her  detachment,  and 
certainly  to  no  one  but  Warrisden  had  she  admitted 
it.  And  it  was  only  acknowledged  to  him  after  he 
had  found  it  out  for  himself.  For  she  did  not  sit  at 
home.  On  the  contrary,  hardly  a  night  passed  dur- 
ing the  season  but  she  went  to  some  party.  Only, 
wherever  she  went,  she  looked  on. 

"And  you  still  prefer  old  men  to  young  ones?"  he 
cried,  in  a  real  exasperation. 

"They  talk  more  of  things  and  less  of  persons,"  she 
explained. 

24 


THE   TRUANTS 

That  was  not  right  either.  She  ought  to  be  inter- 
ested in  persons.  Warrisden  rose  abruptly  from  his 
chair.  He  was  completely  baffled.  Pamela  was  like 
the  sleeping  princess  in  the  fairy  tale — she  lay  girt 
about  with  an  impassable  thicket  of  thorns.  She 
was  in  a  worse  case,  indeed,  for  the  princess  in  the 
story  might  have  slept  on  till  the  end  of  time,  a  thing 
of  beauty.  But  was  it  possible  for  Pamela  so  to 
sleep  to  the  end  of  life?  he  asked  himself.  Let  her  go 
on  in  her  indifference,  and  she  might  dwindle  and 
grow  narrow,  her  soul  would  be  starved  and  all  the 
good  of  her  be  lost.  Somehow  a  way  must  be  forced 
through  the  thicket,  somehow  she  must  be  wakened. 
But  he  seemed  no  nearer  to  finding  that  way  than  he 
had  been  two  years  ago,  and  she  was  no  nearer  to  her 
wakening. 

"No,  there  has  been  no  change,"  he  said,  and  as  he 
spoke  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  bright  light  which  sud- 
denly flamed  up  in  the  window  of  a  dark  house  upon 
his  right.  The  house  had  perplexed  him  more  than 
once.  It  took  so  little  part  in  the  life  of  the  square, 
it  so  consistently  effaced  itself  from  the  gayeties  of  the 
people  who  lived  about.  Its  balconies  were  never 
banked  with  flowers;  no  visitors  mounted  its  steps; 
and  even  in  the  daytime  it  had  a  look  of  mystery.  It 
may  have  been  that  some  dim  analogy  between  that 
house  and  the  question  which  so  baffled  him  arrested 
Warrisden 's  attention.  It  may  have  been  merely  that 
he  was  by  nature  curious  and  observant.  But  he 
leaned  forward  upon  the  balcony-rail. 

"Do  you  see  that  light?"  he  asked.  "In  the  win- 
dow on  the  second  floor?" 

"Yes." 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  noticed  the  time.     It 

25 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  just  a  quarter  to  twelve.  He  laughed  softly  to 
himself,  and  said : 

"Wait  a  moment!" 

He  watched  the  house  for  a  few  minutes  without 
saying  a  word.  Pamela,  with  a  smile  at  his  eagerness, 
watched  too.  In  a  little  while  they  saw  the  door 
open  and  a  man  and  a  woman  both  in  evening  dress 
appear  upon  the  steps.     Warrisden  laughed  again. 

"Wait!"  he  said,  as  if  he  expected  Pamela  to  in- 
terrupt. "You'll  see  they  won't  whistle  up  a  cab. 
They'll  walk  beyond  the  house  and  take  one  quietly. 
Very  likely  they'll  look  up  at  the  lighted  window  on 
the  second  floor,  as  though  they  were  school-boys  who 
had  escaped  from  their  dormitories  and  were  afraid 
of  being  caught  by  the  master  before  they  had  had 
their  fun.     There,  do  you  see?" 

For  as  he  spoke,  the  man  and  the  woman  stopped 
and  looked  up.  Had  they  heard  Warrisden 's  voice 
and  obeyed  his  directions  they  could  not  have  more 
completely  fulfilled  his  prediction.  They  had  the  very 
air  of  truants.  Apparently  they  were  reassured.  They 
walked  along  the  pavement  until  they  were  well  past 
the  house.  Then  they  signalled  to  a  passing  hansom. 
The  cab-driver  did  not  see  them,  yet  they  did  not  call 
out,  nor  did  the  man  whistle.  They  waited  until  an- 
other approached  and  they  beckoned  to  that.  War- 
risden watched  the  whole  scene  with  the  keenest  inter- 
est. As  the  two  people  got  into  the  cab  he  laughed 
again  and  turned  back  to  Pamela. 

"Well?"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  of  amusement,  and 
the  quiet  monosyllable,  falling  as  it  were  with  a  cold 
splash  upon  his  enjoyment  of  the  little  scene,  suddenly 
brought  him  back  to  the  question  which  was  always 
latent  in  his  mind — how  was  Pamela  to  be  awakened  ? 

26 


THE   TRUANTS 

"It's  a  strange  place,  London,"  he  said.  "No 
doubt  it  seems  stranger  to  me,  and  more  full  of  inter- 
esting people  and  interesting  things,  just  because  I 
have  come  back  from  very  silent  and  very  empty 
places.  But  that  house  always  puzzled  me.  I  used 
to  have  rooms  overlooking  this  square,  high  up,  over 
there,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  eastern  side  of  the  square 
towards  Berkeley  Street;  "and  what  we  have  seen  to- 
night used  to  take  place  every  night,  and  at  the  same 
hour.  The  light  went  up  in  the  room  on  the  second 
floor  and  the  truants  crept  out.  Guess  where  they 
go  to!  The  Savoy.  They  go  and  sit  there  among  the 
lights  and  the  music  for  half  an  hour,  then  they  come 
back  to  the  dark  house.  They  hve  in  the  most  curious 
isolation  with  the  most  curious  regularity.  There  are 
three  of  them  altogether:  an  old  man — it  is  his  light, 
I  suppose,  which  went  up  on  the  second  floor — and 
those  two.  I  know  who  they  are.  The  old  man  is 
Sir  John  Stretton." 

"Oh!"  said  Pamela,  with  interest. 

"And  the  two  people  we  saw  are  his  son  and  his  son's 
wife.  I  have  never  met  them.  In  fact,  no  one  meets 
them.     I  don't  know  any  one  who  knows  them." 

"Yes,  you  do,"  said  Pamela,  "I  know  them."  And 
in  her  knowledge,  although  Warrisden  did  not  know  it, 
lay  the  answer  to  the  problem  which  so  perplexed  him. 


Ill 

THE   TRUANTS 

WARRISDEN  turned  quickly  to  Pamela. 
"You  never  mentioned  them." 

"No,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile.  "But  there's  no 
mystery  in  my  silence.  I  simply  haven't  mentioned 
them  because  for  two  years  I  have  lost  sight  of  them 
altogether.  I  used  to  meet  them  about,  and  I  have 
been  to  their  house." 

"There?"  asked  Warrisden,  with  a  nod  towards  the 
lighted  window. 

"No;  but  to  the  house  Millie  and  Mr.  Stretton  had 
in  Deanery  Street.  They  gave  that  up  two  years  ago 
when  old  Lady  Stretton  died.  I  thought  they  had 
gone  to  live  in  the  country." 

"And  all  the  while  they  have  been  living  here,"  ex- 
claimed Warrisden.  He  had  spoken  truthfully  of  him- 
self. The  events  and  the  people  with  whom  he  came, 
however  slightly,  into  contact  always  had  interested 
and  amused  him.  It  was  his  pleasure  to  fit  his  obser- 
vations together  until  he  had  constructed  a  little  biog- 
raphy in  his  mind  of  each  person  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted.  And  there  was  never  an  incident  of  any 
interest  within  his  notice  but  he  sought  the  reason 
for  it  and  kept  an  eye  open  for  its  consequence. 

"Don't  you  see  how  strange  the  story  is?"  he  went 
on.  "They  give  up  their  house  upon  Lady  Stretton's 
death   and   they   come    to   live    here  with   Sir  John. 

28 


THE   TRUANTS 

That's  natural  enough.  Sir  John's  an  old  man.  But 
they  live  in  such  seclusion  that  even  their  friends  think 
they  have  retired  into  the  country." 

"Yes,  it  is  strange,"  Pamela  admitted.  And  she 
added,  "I  was  Millie  Stretton's  bridesmaid." 

Upon  Warrisden's  request  she  told  him  what  she 
knew  of  the  couple  who  lived  in  the  dark  house  and 
played  truant.  Millie  Stretton  was  the  daughter  of  a 
judge  in  Ceylon,  who,  when  Millie  had  reached  the  age 
of  seventeen,  had  married  a  second  time.  The  step- 
mother had  lacked  discretion;  from  the  very  first  she 
had  claimed  to  exercise  a  complete  and  undisputed 
authority;  she  had  been  at  no  pains  to  secure  the  af- 
fections of  her  step-daughter.  And  very  little  trouble 
would  have  been  needed,  for  Millie  was  naturally  af- 
fectionate. A  girl  without  any  great  depth  of  feeling, 
she  responded  easily  to  a  show  of  kindness.  She 
found  it  neither  difficult  to  make  intimate  friends  nor 
hard  to  lose  them.  She  was  of  the  imitative  type  be- 
sides. She  took  her  thoughts  and  even  her  language 
from  those  who  at  the  moment  were  by  her  side.  Thus 
her  step-mother  had  the  easiest  of  tasks,  but  she  did 
not  possess  the  necessary  tact.  She  demanded  obe- 
dience and  in  return  offered  tolerance.  The  household 
at  Colombo,  therefore,  became  for  Millie  a  roofstead 
rather  than  a  home,  and  a  year  after  this  marriage  she 
betook  herself  and  the  few  thousands  of  pounds  which 
her  mother  had  bequeathed  her  to  London.  The 
ostensible  reason  for  her  departure  was  the  invitation 
of  Mrs.  Charles  Rawson,  a  friend  of  her  mother's. 
But  Millie  had  made  up  her  mind  that  a  return  to 
Ceylon  was  not  to  be  endured.  Somehow  she  would 
manage  to  make  a  home  for  herself  in  England. 

She  found  her  path  at  once  made  easy.     She  was 

29 


THE   TRUANTS 

pretty,  with  the  prettiness  of  a  child,  she  gave  no 
trouble,  she  was  fresh,  she  dressed  a  drawing-room 
gracefully,  she  fitted  neatly  into  her  surroundings, 
she  picked  up  immediately  the  ways  of  thought  and 
the  jargon  of  her  new  companions.  In  a  word,  with 
the  remarkable  receptivity  which  was  hers,  she  was 
very  quickly  at  home  in  Mrs.  Rawson's  house.  She 
became  a  favorite  no  less  for  her  modest  friendliness 
than  on  account  of  her  looks.  Mrs.  Rawson,  who  was 
nearing  middle  age,  but  whose  love  of  amusements 
was  not  assuaged,  rejoiced  to  have  so  attractive  a 
companion  to  take  about  with  her.  Millie,  for  her 
part,  was  very  glad  to  be  so  taken  about.  She  had 
fallen  from  the  obscure  clouds  into  a  bright  and  won- 
derful world. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Pamela  Mardale  first  met 
Millicent  Stretton,  or  rather,  one  should  say,  Millicent 
Rundell,  since  Rundell  was  at  that  time  her  name. 
They  became  friends,  although  so  far  as  character  was 
concerned  they  had  little  in  common.  It  may  have 
been  that  the  difference  between  them  was  the  actual 
cause  of  their  friendship.  Certainly  Millie  came  rather 
to  lean  upon  her  friend,  admired  her  strength,  made 
her  the  repository  of  her  confidences,  and  if  she  re- 
ceived no  confidences  in  return,  she  was  content  to 
believe  that  there  were  none  to  make.  It  was  at  this 
time,  too,  that  Millie  fell  in  with  Lady  Stretton. 

Lady  Stretton,  a  tall  old  woman  with  the  head  of  a 
Grenadier,  had  the  characteristic  of  Sir  Anthony  Ab- 
solute. There  was  no  one  so  good-tempered  so  long 
as  she  had  her  own  way;  and  she  generally  had  it. 

"Lady  Stretton  saw  that  Millie  was  easily  led," 
Pamela  continued.  "She  thought,  for  that  reason, 
she  would  be  a  suitable  wife  for  Tony,  her  son,  who 

30 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  then  a  subaltern  in  the  Coldstreams.  So  she 
did  all  she  could  to  throw  them  together.  She  in- 
vited Millie  up  to  her  house  in  Scotland,  the  house 
Lady  Millingham  now  has,  and  Mr.  Stretton  fell  in 
love.  He  was  evidently  very  fond  of  MilHe,  and  Mil- 
lie on  her  side  liked  him  quite  as  much  as  any  one  else. 
They  were  married.  Lady  Stretton  hired  them  the 
house  I  told  you  of,  close  to  Park  Lane,  and  took  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  to  see  that  they  were  comfort- 
able. You  see,  they  were  toys  for  her.  There,  that's 
all  I  know.     Are  you  satisfied?" 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  smiling  at  Warrisden's 
serious  face. 

"And  what  about  the  old  man,  Sir  John  Stretton?" 
he  asked. 

"I  never  met  him,"  repHed  Pamela.  "He  never 
went  out  to  parties,  and  I  never  went  to  that  house." 

As  she  concluded  the  sentence  a  man  looked  on  to 
the  balcony,  and,  seeing  them,  withdrew.  Pamela 
rose  at  once  from  her  chair,  and,  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  jealousy,  Warrisden  swung  round  and  looked 
into  the  room.  The  man  was  well  past  the  middle 
age,  stout  of  build,  and  with  a  heavy,  careworn  face 
with  no  pleasure  in  it  at  all.  He  was  the  man  who 
had  been  with  Pamela  when  Warrisden  had  arrived. 
Warrisden  turned  back  to  the  girl  with  a  smile  of  re- 
Hef. 

"You  are  engaged?" 

"Yes,  for  this  dance  to  Mr.  Mudge,"  and  she  in- 
dicated the  man  who  was  retiring.  "But  we  shall 
meet  again — at  Newmarket,  at  all  events.  Perhaps 
in  Scotland,  too." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Warrisden,  and  as  he  took 
it  her  voice  dropped  to  a  plea. 

31 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Please  don't  go  away  again  without  telling  me 
first,  without  talking  it  over,  so  that  I  may  know 
where  you  are  from  month  to  month.  Please  prom- 
ise!" 

Warrisden  promised,  and  went  away  from  the  house 
with  her  prayer  echoing  in  his  ears.  The  very  sound 
of  her  voice  was  audible  to  him,  and  he  never  doubted 
the  sincerity  of  its  appeal.  But  if  she  set  such  store  on 
what  she  had,  why  was  she  content  with  just  that 
and  nothing  more,  he  asked  himself.  Why  did  she 
not  claim  a  little  more  and  give  a  little  more  in  re- 
turn ?  Why  did  she  come  to  a  halt  at  friendship,  a 
mere  turnpike  on  the  great  road,  instead  of  passing 
through  the  gate  and  going  on  down  the  appointed 
way.  He  did  not  know  that  she  passed  the  turnpike 
once,  and  that  if  she  refused  to  venture  on  that  path 
again  it  was  because,  knowing  herself,  she  dared  not. 

In  the  narrows  of  Berkeley  Street,  Warrisden  was 
shaken  out  of  these  reflections.  A  hansom  jingled 
past  him,  and  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  hung  at 
the  back  within  it  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  truants. 
They  were  driving  home  to  the  dark  house  in  the 
square,  and  they  sat  side  by  side  silent  and  with 
troubled  faces.  Warrisden's  thoughts  went  back  to 
what  Pamela  had  told  him  that  night.  She  had  told 
him  the  half,  but  not  the  perplexing,  interesting  half, 
of  their  history.  That,  indeed,  Pamela  could  not  tell, 
for  she  did  not  know  Sir  John  Stretton,  and  the 
old  man's  warped  and  churlish  character  alone  ex- 
plained it. 

It  was  by  his  doing  that  the  truants  gave  up  their 
cheery  little  house  in  Deanery  Street  and  came  to 
live  in  Berkeley  Square.  The  old  man  was  a  miser, 
who  during  his  wife's  existence  had  not  been  allowed 

32 


THE   TRUANTS 

to  gratify  his  instincts.  He  made  all  the  more  ample 
amends  after  she  had  died.  The  fine  allowance  on 
which  the  young  couple  had  managed  to  keep  a  pair 
of  horses  and  a  little  brougham  was  stripped  from 
them. 

"Why  should  I  live  alone?"  said  the  old  man.  "I 
am  old,  Tony,  and  I  need  some  attention.  The  house 
is  big,  much  too  big  for  me,  and  the  servants  are  eat- 
ing their  heads  off  for  the  want  of  something  to  do." 
There  were,  indeed,  more  servants  than  were  needed. 
Servants  were  the  single  luxury  Sir  John  allowed  him- 
self. Their  liveries  were  faded,  they  themselves  were 
insolent  and  untidy,  but  they  were  there,  in  the  great, 
bare  dining-room  at  dinner-time,  in  the  hall  when  Sir 
John  came  home  of  an  afternoon.  For  the  old  man 
went  out  each  day  as  the  clock  struck  three;  he  came 
back  each  evening  at  half-past  six.  He  went  out 
alone,  he  returned  alone,  and  he  never  went  to  his 
club.  He  took  an  omnibus  from  the  corner  of  Berke- 
ley Street  and  journeyed  eastward  as  far  as  Lud- 
gate  Hill.  There  he  took  a  drink  in  the  refreshment 
bar,  and,  coming  out,  struck  northward  into  Holborn, 
where  he  turned  westward,  and,  walking  as  far  as  the 
inn  at  the  corner  of  the  Tottenham  Court  Road,  stepped 
for  an  hour  into  the  private  bar.  Thence  he  took  an- 
other omnibus,  and  finally  reached  home,  where  his 
footmen  received  him  solemnly  in  the  hall.  To  this 
home  he  brought  Tony  and  his  wife. 

"There,  choose  your  own  rooms,  Tony,"  he  said, 
magnanimously.  "What's  that?  Money?  But  what 
for?     You'll  have  it  soon  enough." 

Tony  Stretton  suggested  that  it  was  hardly  possible 
for  any  man,  however  careful,  to  retain  a  commission 
in  the  Coldstreams  without  an  allowance.     Sir  John, 

3  2i 


THE   TRUANTS 

a  tall,  thin  man  with  a  high,  bald  forehead  and  a  prim, 
Puritanical  face,  looked  at  his  son  with  a  righteous 
severity. 

"A  very  expensive  regiment.  Leave  it,  Tony,  and 
live  quietly  at  home.  Look  after  your  father,  my 
boy,  and  you  won't  need  money,"  and  he  stalked  up- 
stairs, leaving  Tony  aghast  in  the  hall.  Tony  had  to 
sit  down  and  think  it  over  before  he  could  quite  real- 
ize the  fate  which  had  overtaken  him.  Here  he  was, 
twenty-six  years  old,  brought  up  to  spend  what  he 
wanted  and  to  ask  for  more  when  that  was  ended, 
and  he  was  to  live  quietly  on  nothing  at  all.  He  had 
no  longer  any  profession,  he  was  not  clever  enough  to 
enter  upon  a  new  one  without  some  sort  of  start,  and 
in  addition  he  had  a  wife.  His  wife,  it  was  true,  had 
a  few  thousands;  they  had  remained  untouched  ever 
since  the  marriage,  and  Tony  shrank  from  touching 
them  now.  He  sat  on  one  of  the  hall  chairs,  twisting 
his  mustache  and  staring  with  his  blank,  blue  eyes 
at  the  opposite  wall.  What  in  the  world  was  he  to  do  ? 
Old  Sir  John  was  quite  aware  of  those  few  thousands. 
They  might  just  as  well  be  used  now,  he  thought,  and 
save  him  expense.  Tony  could  pay  them  back  after 
his  father  was  dead.  Such  was  Sir  John's  plan,  and 
Tony  had  to  fall  in  with  it.  The  horses  and  the 
brougham  and  all  the  furniture,  the  prints,  the  pict- 
ures, and  the  mirrors  which  had  decked  out  so  gayly 
the  little  house  in  Deanery  Street  went  to  the  hammer. 
Tony  paid  off  his  debts  and  found  himself  with  a  hun- 
dred pounds  in  hand  at  the  end;  and  when  that  was 
gone  he  was  forced  to  come  to  his  wife. 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  "we'll  share  what  I  have, 
Tony." 

"  Yes,  but  we  must  go  carefully,"  he  replied.  "  Heav- 

34 


THE   TRUANTS 

en  knows  how  long  we  will  have  to  drag  on  like 
this." 

So  the  money  question  was  settled,  but  that  was  in 
reality  the  least  of  their  troubles.  Sir  John,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  was  master  in  fact  as  well  as  in 
name.  He  had  been  no  match  for  his  wife,  but  he 
was  more  than  a  match  for  his  son.  He  was  the  fifth 
baronet  of  his  name,  and  yet  there  was  no  landed 
property.  He  was  rich,  and  all  the  money  was  safely 
tucked  away  in  the  public  funds,  and  he  could  bequeath 
it  as  he  willed.  He  was  in  a  position  to  put  the  screw 
on  Tony  and  his  wife,  and  he  did  not  let  the  oppor- 
tunity slip.  The  love  of  authority  grew  upon  him. 
He  became  exacting  and  portentously  severe.  In  his 
black,  shabby  coat,  with  his  long,  thin  figure  and  his 
narrow  face,  he  had  the  look  of  a  cold,  self-righteous 
fanatic.  You  would  have  believed  that  he  was  mor- 
tifying his  son  for  the  sake  of  his  son's  soul,  unless, 
perchance,  you  had  peeped  into  that  private  bar  in 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road  and  had  seen  him  drink- 
ing gloomily  alone. 

He  laid  down  rules  to  which  the  unfortunate  couple 
must  needs  conform.  They  had  to  dine  with  him 
every  night  and  to  sit  with  him  every  evening  until 
he  went  to  bed.  It  followed  that  they  lost  sight  of 
their  friends,  and  every  month  isolated  them  more 
completely.  The  mere  humiliation  of  the  position  in 
which  they  stood  caused  them  to  shrink  more  and 
more  into  their  privacy.  When  they  walked  out  in  the 
afternoon  they  kept  away  from  the  park;  when  they 
played  truant  in  the  evening,  at  the  Savoy,  they  chose 
a  little  table  in  an  obscure  corner.  This  was  the  real 
history  of  the  truants  with  whose  fortunes  those  of 
Warrisden  and  Pamela  were  to  be  so  closely  inter- 

35 


THE   TRUANTS 

mingled.  For  that  life  in  the  dark  house  was  not  to 
last.  Even  as  Warrisden  passed  them  in  Berkeley- 
Street,  Tony  Stretton  was  saying  over  and  over  again 
in  his  inactive  mind: 

"It  can't  go  on!     It  can't  go  on!" 


IV 
TONY   STRETTON   MAKES   A   PROPOSAL 

REGULAR  as  Warrisden  had  declared  the  lives  of 
the  truants  to  be,  on  the  night  following  the 
dance  at  Lady  Millingham's  there  came  a  break  in 
the  monotony  of  their  habits.  For  once  in  a  way 
they  did  not  leave  the  house  in  their  search  for  light 
and  color  as  soon  as  they  were  free.  They  stayed  on 
in  their  own  sitting-room.  But  it  seemed  that  they 
had  nothing  to  speak  about.  Millie  Stretton  sat  at 
the  table,  staring  at  the  wall  in  front  of  her,  moody 
and  despairing.  Tony  Stretton  leaned  against  the 
embrasure  of  the  window,  now  and  then  glancing  re- 
morsefully at  his  wife,  now  and  then  looking  angrily 
up  to  the  ceiling  where  the  heavy  footsteps  of  a  man 
treading  up  and  down  the  room  above  sounded  meas- 
ured and  unceasing. 

Tony  lifted  a  comer  of  the  blind  and  looked  out. 

"There's  a  party  next  door,"  he  said;  "there  was 
another  at  Lady  Millingham's  last  night.  You  should 
have  been  at  both,  Millie,  and  you  were  at  neither. 
Upon  my  word,  it's  rough." 

He  dropped  the  blind  and  came  over  to  her  side. 
He  knew  quite  well  what  parties  and  entertainments 
meant  to  her.  She  loved  them,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
natural  and  right  that  she  should.  Light,  admira- 
tion, laughter  and  gayety,  and  fine  frocks  —  these 
things  she  was  born  to  enjoy,  and  he  himself  had  in 

37 


THE   TRUANTS 

the  old  days  taken  a  great  pride  in  watching  her  en- 
joyment. But  it  was  not  merely  the  feeling  that  she 
had  been  stripped  of  what  was  her  due  through  him 
which  troubled  him  to-night.  Other  and  deeper 
thoughts  were  vaguely  stirring  in  his  mind. 

"We  have  quarrelled  again  to-night,  Millie,"  he 
continued,  remorsefully.  "Here  we  are  cooped  up 
together  with  just  ourselves  to  rely  upon  to  pull 
through  these  bad  years,  and  we  have  quarrelled 
again." 

Millie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"How  did  it  begin?"  he  asked.  "Upon  my  word, 
I  don't  remember.  Oh  yes,  I — "  and  Millie  inter- 
rupted him. 

"What  does  it  matter,  Tony,  how  the  quarrel  be- 
gan? It  did  begin,  and  another  will  begin  to-morrow. 
We  can't  help  ourselves,  and  you  have  given  the  rea- 
son. Here  we  are  cooped  up  by  ourselves  with  noth- 
ing else  to  do." 

Tony  pulled  thoughtfully  at  his  mustache. 

"And  we  swore  off  quarrelling,  too.  When  was 
that?" 

"Yesterday." 

"Yesterday!"  exclaimed  Tony,  with  a  start  of  sur- 
prise.    "By  George!   so  it  was.     Only  yesterday." 

Millie  looked  up  at  him,  and  the  trouble  upon  his 
face  brought  a  smile  to  hers.  She  laid  a  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"It's  no  use  swearing  off,  Tony,"  she  said.  "We 
are  both  of  us  living  all  the  time  in  a  state  of  exas- 
peration. I  just — tingle  with  it;  there's  no  other 
word.  And  the  least,  smallest  thing  which  goes 
wrong  sets  us  quarrelhng.  I  don't  think  either  of  us 
is  to   blame.     The  house  alone   gets   on   our  nerves, 

38 


THE   TRUANTS 

doesn't  it?  These  great,  empty,  silent,  dingy  rooms, 
with  their  tarnished  furniture.  Oh,  they  are  horrible! 
I  wander  through  them  sometimes,  and  it  always 
seems  to  me  that  a  long  time  ago  people  lived  here 
who  suddenly  felt  one  morning  that  they  couldn't- 
stand  it  for  a  single  moment  longer,  and  ran  out  and 
locked  the  street  door  behind  them;  and  I  have  almost 
done  it  myself.  The  very  sunlight  comes  through 
the  windows  timidly,  as  if  it  knew  it  had  no  right  here 
at  all." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  looking  at  Tony  with 
eyes  that  were  hopeless  and  almost  haggard.  As 
Tony  Hstened  to  her  outburst  the  remorse  deepened 
on  his  face. 

"If  I  could  have  foreseen  all  this  I  would  have 
spared  you  it,  Millie,"  he  said.  "I  would,  upon  my 
word."  He  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  table,  and,  sitting 
down,  said,  in  a  more  cheerful  voice,  "Let's  talk  it 
over  and  see  if  we  can't  find  a  remedy." 

Millie  shook  her  head. 

"We  talked  it  over  yesterday." 

"Yes,  so  we  did." 

"And  quarrelled  an  hour  after  we  had  talked  it 
over." 

"We  did  that,  too,"  Tony  agreed,  despondently. 
His  little  spark  of  hopefulness  was  put  out,  and  he 
sat  in  silence.  His  wife,  too,  did  not  speak,  and  in  a 
short  while  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  silence  was 
more  complete  than  it  had  been  a  few  minutes  ago. 
It  seemed  that  a  noise  had  ceased,  and  a  noise  which, 
unnoticed  before,  had  become  noticeable  by  its  cessa- 
tion. He  looked  up  to  the  ceiling.  The  heavy  foot- 
steps no  longer  dragged  upon  the  floor  overhead.  Tony 
sprang  up. 

39 


THE   TRUANTS 

"There!  He  is  in  bed!"  he  exclaimed.  "Shall  we 
go  out?" 

"Not  to-night,"  replied  Millie. 

He  could  make  no  proposal  that  night  which  was 

•  welcomed,  and  as  he  walked  over  to  the  mantel-shelf 

and  filled  his  pipe  there  was  something  in  his  attitude 

and  bearing  which  showed  to  Millie  that  the  quick 

rebuff  had  hurt. 

"I  can't  pretend  to-night,  Tony,  and  that's  the 
truth,"  she  added,  in  a  kinder  voice.  "For,  after  all, 
I  do  only  pretend  nowadays  that  I  find  the  Savoy 
amusing." 

Tony  turned  slowly  round  with  the  lighted  match 
in  his  hand  and  stared  at  his  wife.  He  was  a  man 
slow  in  thought,  and,  when  his  thoughts  compelled 
expression,  laborious  in  words.  The  deeper  thoughts 
which  had  begun  of  late  to  take  shape  in  his  mind 
stirred  again  at  her  words. 

"You  have  owned  it,"  he  said. 

"It  has  been  pretence  with  you,  too,  then?"  she 
asked,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

Tony  puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"Of  late,  yes,"  he  replied.  "Perhaps,  chiefly  since 
I  saw  that  you  were  pretending." 

He  came  back  to  her  side  and  looked  for  a  long 
time  steadily  at  her  while  he  thought.  It  was  a  sur- 
prise to  Millie  that  he  had  noticed  her  pretence,  as 
much  of  a  surprise  as  that  he  had  been  pretending, 
too.  For  she  knew  him  to  be  at  once  slow  to  notice 
any  change  in  others  and  quick  to  betray  it  in  him- 
self. But  she  was  not  aware  how  wide  a  place  she 
filled  in  all  his  thoughts,  partly  because  her  own  nat- 
ure with  its  facile  emotions  made  her  unable  to  con- 
ceive a  devotion  which  was  engrossing,   and  partly 

40 


THE   TRUANTS 

because  Tony  himself  had  no  aptitude  for  expressing 
such  a  devotion,  and,  indeed,  would  have  shrunk  from 
its  expression  had  the  aptitude  been  his.  But  she  did 
fill  that  wide  place.  Very  slowly  he  had  begun  to 
watch  her,  very  slowly  and  dimly  certain  convictions 
were  taking  shape,  very  gradually  he  was  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  to  a  knowledge  that  a  great  risk 
must  be  taken  and  a  great  sacrifice  made,  partly  by 
him,  partly,  too,  by  her.  Some  part  of  his  trouble  he 
now  spoke  to  her. 

"It  wasn't  pretence  a  year  ago,  Millie,"  he  said, 
wistfully.  "That's  what  bothers  me.  We  enjoyed 
slipping  away  quietly  when  the  house  was  quiet,  and 
snatching  some  of  the  Hght,  some  of  the  laughter  the 
others  have  any  time  they  want  it.  It  made  up  for 
the  days;  it  was  fun  then,  Millie,  wasn't  it  ?  Upon  my 
word,  I  believe  we  enjoyed  our  life — yes,  even  this  life 
— a  year  ago.  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  drive 
home  laughing  over  what  we  had  seen,  talking  about 
the  few  people  we  had  spoken  to  ?  It  wasn't  until  we 
had  turned  the  latch-key  in  the  door  and  crept  into 
the  hall — " 

"And  passed  the  library  door,"  Millie  interrupted, 
with  a  little  shiver. 

Tony  Stretton  stopped  for  a  moment.  Then  he  re- 
sumed, in  a  lower  voice:  "Yes,  it  wasn't  until  we  had 
passed  the  library  door  that  the  gloom  settled  down 
again.  But  now  the  fun's  all  over,  at  the  latest  when 
the  Hghts  go  down  in  the  supper-room,  and  often  be- 
fore we  have  got  to  them  at  all.  We  were  happy  last 
year" — and  he  shook  her  affectionately  by  the  arm — 
"that's  what  bothers  me." 

His  wife  responded  to  the  gentleness  of  his  voice  and 
action. 

41 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Never  mind,  Tony,"  she  said.  "Some  day  we 
shall  look  back  on  all  of  it — this  house  and  the  empty 
rooms  and  the  quarrels — "  She  hesitated  for  a  second. 
"Yes,  and  the  library  door;  we  shall  look  back  on  it 
all  and  laugh." 

"Shall  we?"  said  Tony,  suddenly.  His  face  was 
most  serious,  his  voice  most  doubtful. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Millie.  Then  she 
added,  reassuringly :  "It  must  end  sometime.  Oh  yes, 
it  can't  last  forever." 

"No,"  replied  Tony;  "but  it  can  last  just  long 
enough." 

"Long  enough  for  what?" 

"Long  enough  to  spoil  both  our  lives  altogether." 

He  was  speaking  with  a  manner  which  was  quite 
strange  to  her.  There  was  a  certainty  in  his  voice; 
there  was  a  gravity,  too.  He  had  ceased  to  leave  the 
remedy  of  their  plight  to  time  and  chance,  since, 
through  two  years,  time  and  chance  had  failed  them. 
He  had  been  seriously  thinking,  and  as  the  result  of 
thought  he  had  come  to  definite  conclusions.  Millie 
understood  that  there  was  much  more  behind  the 
words  he  had  spoken,  and  that  he  meant  to  say 
that  much  more  to  her  to-night.  She  was  sudden- 
ly aware  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  issues  mo- 
mentous to  both  of  them.  She  began  to  be  a  little 
afraid.  She  looked  at  Tony  almost  as  if  he  were  a 
stranger. 

"Tony,"  she  said,  faintly,  in  deprecation. 

"We  must  face  it,  Millie,"  he  went  on,  steadily. 
"This  life  of  ours  here  in  this  house  will  come  to  an 
end,  of  course,  but  how  will  it  leave  us,  you  and  me? 
Soured,  embittered,  quarrelsome,  or  no  longer  quar- 
relsome but  just  indifferent  to  each  other,  bored  by 

42 


THE  TRUANTS 

each  other?"  He  was  speaking  very  slowly,  choosing 
each  word  with  difficulty. 

"Oh  no,"  Millie  protested. 

"It  may  be  even  worse  than  that.  Suppose  we 
passed  beyond  indifference  to  dislike — yes,  active  dis- 
like. We  are  both  of  us  young,  we  can  both  reason- 
ably look  forward  to  long  lives,  long  lives  of  active 
dislike.     There  might,  too,  be  contempt  on  your  side." 

Millie  stared  at  her  husband. 

"Contempt?"  she  said,  echoing  his  words  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes.  Here  are  you  most  unhappy,  and  I  take  it 
sitting  down.     Contempt  might  come  from  that." 

"But  what  else  can  you  do?"  she  said. 

"Ah,"  said  Tony,  as  though  he  had  been  waiting 
for  that  question,  couched  in  just  those  words.  "Ask 
yourself  that  question  often  enough  and  contempt  will 
come." 

This  idea  of  contempt  was  a  new  one  to  Millie,  and 
very  likely  her  husband  was  indiscreet  in  suggesting 
its  possibility.  But  he  was  not  thinking  at  all  of  the 
unwisdom  of  his  words.  His  thoughts  were  set  on 
saving  the  cherished  intimacy  of  their  life  from  the 
ruin  which  he  saw  was  likely  to  overtake  it.  He  spoke 
out  frankly,  not  counting  the  risk.  Millie,  for  her 
part,  was  not  in  the  mood  to  estimate  the  truth  of 
what  he  said,  although  it  remained  in  her  memory. 
She  was  rather  confused  by  the  new  aspect  which  her 
husband  wore.  She  foresaw  that  he  was  working 
towards  the  disclosure  of  a  plan;  and  the  plan  would 
involve  changes,  great  changes,  very  likely  a  step  al- 
together into  the  dark.     And  she  hesitated. 

"We  shan't  alter,  Tony,"  she  said.  "You  can  be 
sure  of  me,  can't  you?" 

43 


THE   TRUANTS 

"But  we  are  altering,"  he  replied.  "Already  the 
alteration  has  begun.  Did  we  quarrel  a  year  ago  as 
we  do  now?  We  enjoyed  those  evenings  when  we 
played  truant  a  year  ago;"  and  then  he  indulged 
in  a  yet  greater  indiscretion  than  any  which  he  had 
yet  allowed  himself  to  utter.  But  he  was  by  nature 
simple  and  completely  honest.  Whatever  occurred 
to  him,  that  he  spoke  without  reserve,  and  the  larger 
it  loomed  in  his  thoughts  the  more  strenuous  was  its 
utterance  upon  his  lips.  He  took  a  seat  at  the  table 
by  her  side. 

"I  know  we  are  changing.  I  take  myself,  and  I  ex- 
pect it  is  the  same  with  you.  I  am — it  is  difficult  to 
express  it — I  am  deadening.  I  am  getting  insensible 
to  the  things  which  not  very  long  ago  moved  me  very 
much.  I  once  had  a  friend  who  fell  ill  of  a  slow  pa- 
ralysis which  crept  up  his  limbs  little  by  little,  and  he 
hardly  noticed  its  advance.  I  think  that's  happen- 
ing with  me.  I  am  losing  the  associations — that's  the 
word  I  want — the  associations  which  made  one's  rec- 
ollections valuable  and  gave  a  color  to  one's  life. 
For  instance,  you  sang  a  song  last  night,  Millie,  one 
of  those  coon  songs  of  yours — do  you  remember? 
You  sang  it  once  in  Scotland  on  a  summer's  night.  I 
was  outside  on  the  lawn,  and  past  the  islands  across 
the  water,  which  was  dark  and  still,  I  saw  the  lights 
in  Oban  Bay.  I  thought  I  would  never  hear  that 
song  again  without  seeing  those  lights  in  my  mind,  far 
away  across  the  water,  clustered  together  like  the  lights 
of  a  distant  town.  Well,  last  night  all  those  associa- 
tions were  somehow  dead.  I  remembered  all  right, 
but  without  any  sort  of  feeling,  that  that  song  was  a 
landmark  in  one's  life.  It  was  merely  you  singing  a 
song,  or  rather  it  was  merely  some  one  singing  a  song." 

44 


THE   TRUANTS 

It  was  a  labored  speech,  and  Tony  was  very  glad 
to  have  got  it  over. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  repHed  MilHe,  in  a  low  voice. 
She  did  not  show  him  her  face,  and  he  had  no  notion 
whatever  that  his  words  could  hardly  have  failed  to 
hurt.  He  was  too  intent  upon  convincing  her,  and 
too  anxious  to  put  his  belief  before  her  with  unmis- 
takable clearness  to  reflect  in  what  spirit  she  might 
receive  the  words.  That  her  first  thought  would  be, 
"He  no  longer  cares,"  never  occurred  to  him  at  all, 
and  cheerfully  misunderstanding  her  acquiescence,  he 
went  on: 

"You  see,  that's  bad.  It  mustn't  go  on,  Millie. 
Let's  keep  what  we've  got.  At  all  costs,  let  us  keep 
that!" 

"You  mean  we  must  go  away?"  said  Millie,  and 
Tony  Stretton  did  not  answer.  He  rose  from  his  chair 
and  walked  back  to  the  fireplace  and  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe.  Millie  was  accustomed  to  long 
intervals  between  her  questions  and  his  replies,  but 
she  was  on  the  alert  now.  Something  in  his  move- 
ments and  his  attitude  showed  her  that  he  was  not 
thinking  of  what  answer  he  should  make.  He  was 
already  sure  upon  that  point.  Only  the  particular 
answer  he  found  difficult  to  speak.  She  guessed  it  on 
the  instant  and  stood  up  erect,  in  alarm. 

"You  mean  that  you  must  go  away  and  that  I 
must  remain?" 

Tony  turned  round  to  her  and  nodded  his  head. 

"Alone!  Here?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  round  her 
with  a  shiver. 

"For  a  little  while.  Until  I  have  made  a  home  for 
you  to  come  to.  Only  till  then,  Millie.  It  needn't  be 
so  very  long." 

45 


THE   TRUANTS 

"It  will  seem  ages!"  she  cried,  "however  short  it  is. 
Tony,  it's  impossible." 

The  tedious  days  stretched  before  her  in  an  endless 
and  monotonous  succession.  The  great  rooms  would 
be  yet  more  silent  and  more  empty  than  they  were; 
there  would  be  a  chill  throughout  all  the  house;  the 
old  man's  exactions  would  become  yet  more  oppressive, 
since  there  would  be  only  one  to  bear  them.  She 
thought  of  the  long,  dull  evenings  in  the  faded  draw- 
ing-room. They  were  bad  enough  now,  those  long 
evenings  during  which  she  read  the  evening  paper 
aloud  and  Sir  John  slept,  yet  not  so  soundly  but  that 
he  woke  the  instant  her  voice  stopped  and  bade  her 
continue.  What  would  they  be  if  Tony  were  gone, 
if  there  were  no  hour  or  so  at  the  end  when  they  were 
free  to  play  truant  if  they  willed  ?  What  she  had 
said  was  true.  She  had  been  merely  pretending  to 
enjoy  their  hour  of  truancy,  but  she  would  miss  it  none 
the  less.  And  in  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  she 
heard  Tony's  voice. 

"It  sounds  selfish,  I  know,  but  it  isn't  really.  You 
see,  I  sha'n't  enjoy  myself.  I  have  not  been  brought 
up  to  know  anything  well  or  to  do  anything  well — 
anything,  I  mean,  really  useful  —  I'll  have  a  pretty 
hard  time,  too."  And  then  he  described  to  her  what 
he  thought  of  doing.  He  proposed  to  go  out  to  one 
of  the  colonies,  spend  some  months  on  a  farm  as  a 
hand,  and  when  he  had  learned  enough  of  the  methods, 
and  had  saved  a  little  money,  to  get  hold  of  a  small 
farm  to  which  he  could  ask  her  to  come.  It  was  a 
pretty  and  a  simple  scheme,  and  it  ignored  the  great 
difficulties  in  the  way,  such  as  his  ignorance  and  his 
lack  of  capital.  But  he  believed  in  it  sincerely,  and 
every  word  in  his  short  and  broken  sentences  proved 

46 


THE   TRUANTS 

his  belief.  He  had  his  way  that  night  with  MilHcent. 
She  was  capable  of  a  quick  fervor,  though  the  fervor 
might  as  quickly  flicker  out.  She  saw  that  the  sac- 
rifice was  really  upon  his  side,  for  upon  him  would  be 
the  unaccustomed  burden  of  labor,  and  the  labor  would 
be  strange  and  difficult.  She  rose  to  his  height,  since 
he  was  with  her  and  speaking  to  her  with  all  the  con- 
viction of  his  soul. 

"Well,  then,  go!"  she  cried.  "I'll  wait  here,  Tony, 
till  you  send  for  me." 

And  when  she  passed  the  library  door  that  night 
she  did  not  even  shrink. 


V 

PAMELA   MAKES   A   PROMISE 

MILLIE'S  enthusiasm  for  her  husband's  plan  in- 
creased each  day.  The  picture  which  his  halting 
phrases  evoked  for  her,  of  a  little  farm  very  far  away 
under  Southern  skies,  charmed  her  more  by  reason  of 
its  novelty  than  either  she  or  Tony  quite  understood. 
In  the  evenings  of  the  following  week,  long  after  the 
footsteps  overhead  had  ceased,  they  sat  choosing  the 
site  of  their  house  and  building  it.  It  was  to  be  the 
exact  opposite  of  their  house  of  bondage.  The  win- 
dows should  look  out  over  rolling  country,  the  simple 
decorations  should  be  bright  of  color,  and  through 
every  cranny  the  sun  should  find  its  way.  Millie's 
hopes,  indeed,  easily  outran  her  husband's.  She 
counted  the  house  already  built,  and  the  door  open  for 
her  coming.     Color  and  light  bathed  it  in  beauty. 

"There's  my  little  fortune,  Tony,"  she  said,  when 
once  or  twice  he  tried  to  check  the  leap  of  her  antici- 
pations; "that  will  provide  the  capital." 

"I  knew  you  would  offer  it,"  Tony  replied,  simply. 
"Your  help  will  shorten  our  separation  by  a  good 
deal.     So  I'll  take  half." 

"All!"  cried  Milhe. 

"And  what  would  you  do  when  you  wanted  a  new 
frock?"  asked  Tony,  with  a  smile. 

Millie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  shall  join  you  so  soon,"  she  said. 

48 


THE   TRUANTS 

It  dawned  upon  Tony  that  she  was  making  too  little 
of  the  burden  which  she  would  be  called  upon  to  bear 
— the  burden  of  dull,  lonely  months  in  that  great,  shab- 
by house. 

"It  will  be  a  little  while  before  I  can  send  for  you, 
Millie,"  he  protested.  But  she  paid  no  heed  to  the 
protest.  She  fetched  her  bank-book  and  added  up 
the  figures. 

"I  have  three  thousand  pounds,"  she  said. 

"I'll  borrow  half,"  he  repeated.  "Of  course,  I  am 
only  borrowing.  Should  things  go  wrong  with  me, 
you  are  sure  to  get  it  back  in  the  end." 

They  drove  down  to  Millie's  bank  the  next  morning, 
and  fifteen  hundred  pounds  were  transferred  to  his 
account. 

"Meanwhile,"  said  Tony,  as  they  came  out  of  the 
door  into  Pall  Mall,  "we  have  not  yet  settled  where 
our  farm  is  to  be.     I  think  I  will  go  and  see  Chase." 

"The  man  in  Stepney  Green?"  Millie  asked. 

"Yes.     He's  the  man  to  help  us." 

Tony  called  a  cab  and  drove  off.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  he  returned,  and  he  had  no  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  his  wife  the  results  of  his  visit  before  din- 
ner was  announced.  Millie  was  in  a  fever  to  hear  his 
news.  Never,  even  in  this  house,  had  an  evening 
seemed  so  long.  Sir  John  sat  upright  in  his  high- 
backed  chair,  and,  as  was  his  custom,  bade  her  read 
aloud  the  evening  paper.  But  that  task  was  beyond 
her.  She  pleaded  a  headache  and  escaped.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  hours  passed  before  Tony  rejoined  her. 
She  had  come  to  dread  with  an  intense  fear  that  some 
hindrance  would,  at  any  moment,  stop  their  plan. 

"Well  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly,  when  Tony  at  last  came 
into  their  sitting-room. 

4  49 


THE   TRUANTS 

"It's  to  be  horses  in  Kentucky,"  answered  Tony. 
"Farming  wants  more  knowledge  and  a  long  appren- 
ticeship; but  I  know  a  little  about  horses." 

"Splendid!"  cried  Millie.     "You  will  go  soon?" 

"In  a  week.     A  week  is  all  I  need." 

Millie  was  quiet  for  a  little  while.  Then  she  asked, 
with  an  anxious  look: 

"When  do  you  mean  to  tell  your  father?" 

"To-morrow." 

"  Don't,"  said  she.  She  saw  his  face  cloud — she  was 
well  aware  of  his  dislike  of  secrecies — but  she  was  too 
much  afraid  that,  somehow,  at  the  last  moment  an 
insuperable  obstacle  would  bar  the  way.  "Don't  tell 
him  at  all,"  she  went  on.  "Leave  a  note  for  him.  I 
will  see  that  it  is  given  to  him  after  you  have  gone. 
Then  he  can't  stop  you.     Please  do  this,  I  ask  you," 

"How  can  he  stop  me?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  am  afraid  that  he  will.  He 
could  threaten  to  disinherit  you;  if  you  disobeyed,  he 
might  carry  out  the  threat.  Give  him  no  opportunity 
to  threaten." 

Very  reluctantly  Tony  consented.  He  had  all  a 
man's  objections  to  concealments,  she  all  a  woman's 
liking  for  them;  but  she  prevailed,  and,  since  the  mo- 
ment of  separation  was  very  near,  they  began  to  re- 
trace their  steps  through  the  years  of  their  married 
life,  and  back  beyond  them  to  the  days  of  their  first 
acquaintance.  Thus  it  happened  that  Millie  men- 
tioned the  name  of  Pamela  Mardale,  and  suddenly 
Tony  drew  himself  upright  in  his  chair. 

"Is  she  in  town,  I  wonder?"  he  asked,  rather  of 
himself  than  of  his  wife. 

"Most  likely,"  Millie  replied.     "Why?" 
"I  think  I  must  try  to  see  her  before  I  go,"  said 

SO 


THE   TRUANTS 

Tony,  thoughtfully;  and  more  than  once  during  the 
evening  he  looked  with  anxiety  towards  his  wife;  but 
in  his  look  there  was  some  perplexity,  too. 

He  tried  next  day;  for  he  borrowed  a  horse  from  a 
friend,  and  rode  out  into  the  Row  at  eleven  o'clock. 
As  he  passed  through  the  gates  of  Hyde  Park  he  saw 
Pamela  turning  her  horse  on  the  edge  of  the  sand. 
She  saw  him  at  the  same  moment  and  waited. 

"You  are  a  stranger  here,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as 
he  joined  her. 

"Here  and  everywhere,"  he  replied.  "I  came  out 
on  purpose  to  find  you." 

Pamela  glanced  at  Tony  curiously.  Only  a  few  days 
had  passed  since  Warrisden  had  pointed  out  the 
truants  from  the  window  of  Lady  Millingham's  house 
and  had  speculated  upon  the  seclusion  of  their  lives. 
The  memory  of  that  evening  was  still  fresh  in  her 
mind. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"Ask  it  and  I'll  answer,"  she  replied,  carelessly. 

"You  were  Millie's  bridesmaid?" 

"Yes." 

"You  saw  a  great  deal  of  her  before  we  were  mar- 
ried?" 

"Yes." 

They  were  riding  down  the  Row  at  a  walk  under 
the  trees,  Pamela  wondering  to  what  these  questions 
were  to  lead,  Tony  slowly  formulating  the  point  which 
troubled  him. 

"Before  Millie  and  I  were  engaged,"  he  went  on, 
"before,  indeed,  there  was  any  likelihood  of  our  being 
engaged,  you  once  said  to  me  something  about  her." 

"I  did?" 

"Yes.     I  remernbered  it  last  night.     And  it  rather 

51 


THE   TRUANTS 

worries  me.  I  should  like  you  to  explain  what  you 
meant.  You  said,  'The  man  who  marries  her  should 
never  leave  her.  If  he  goes  away  shooting  big  game, 
he  should  take  her  with  him.  On  no  account  must 
she  be  left  behind.'" 

It  was  a  day  cloudless  and  bright.  Over  towards  the 
Serpentine  the  heat  filled  the  air  with  a  soft  screen  of 
mist,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  Row  the  rhododendrons 
glowed.  As  Pamela  and  Tony  went  forward  at  a 
walk  the  sunlight  slanting  through  the  leaves  now  shone 
upon  their  faces,  and  now  left  them  in  shade.  And 
when  it  fell  bright  upon  Pamela  it  lit  up  a  counte- 
nance which  was  greatly  troubled.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, deny  that  she  had  used  the  words.  She  did  not 
pretend  that  she  had  forgotten  their  application. 

"You  remember  what  I  said?"  she  remarked.  "It 
is  a  long  while  ago." 

"Before  that,"  he  explained,  "I  had  begun  to  no- 
tice all  that  was  said  of  Millie." 

"I  spoke  the  words  generally,  perhaps  too  care- 
lessly." 

"Yet  not  without  a  reason,"  Tony  insisted.  "That's 
not  your  way." 

Pamela  made  no  reply  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then 
she  patted  her  horse's  head,  and  said  softly: 

"Not  without  a  reason."  She  admitted  his  con- 
tention frankly.  She  did  more,  for  she  turned  in  her 
saddle  towards  him,  and,  looking  straight  into  his 
face,  said: 

"  I  was  not  giving  you  advice  at  the  time.  But,  had 
I  been,  I  should  have  said  just  those  words.  I  say 
them  again  now." 

"Why?" 

Tony  put  his  question  very    earnestly.     He    held 

52 


THE   TRUANTS 

Pamela  in  a  great  respect,  believing  her  clear-sighted 
beyond  her  fellows.  He  was,  indeed,  a  little  timid 
in  her  presence  as  a  rule,  for  she  overawed  him,  though 
all  unconsciously.  Nothing  of  this  timidity,  however, 
showed  now.  "That  was  what  I  came  out  to  ask  you. 
Why?" 

Again  Pamela  attempted  no  evasion. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"You  promised." 

"I  break  the  promise." 

Tony  looked  wistfully  at  his  companion.  That  the 
perplexing  words  had  been  spoken  with  a  definite 
meaning  he  had  felt  sure  from  the  moment  when  he 
had  remembered  them.  And  her  refusal  to  explain 
proved  to  him  that  the  meaning  was  a  very  serious 
one — one,  indeed,  which  he  ought  to  know  and  take 
into  account. 

"I  ask  you  to  explain,"  he  urged,  "because  I  am 
going  away,  and  I  ant  leaving  Millie  behind." 

Pamela  was  startled.  She  turned  quickly  towards 
him. 

"Must  you?"  she  said,  and  before  he  could  answer 
she  recovered  from  her  surprise.  "Never  mind,"  she 
continued;  "shall  we  ride  on?"  and  she  put  her  horse 
to  a  trot.  It  was  not  her  business  to  advise  or  to  in- 
terfere. She  had  said  too  much  already.  She  meant 
to  remain  the  looker-on.  i 

Stretton,  however,  was  not  upon  this  occasion  to  be 
so  easily  suppressed.  He  kept  level  with  her,  and  as 
they  rode  he  told  her  something  of  the  life  which  Millie 
and  he  had  led  in  the  big,  lonely  house  in  Berkeley 
Square;  and  in  spite  of  herself  Pamela  was  interested. 
She  had  a  sudden  wish  that  Alan  Warrisden  was  riding 
with  them,  too,  so  that  he  might  hear  his  mystery  re- 

53 


THE   TRUANTS 

solved;  she  had  a  sudden  vision  of  his  face,  keen  as  a 
boy's,  as  he  Hstened. 

"I  saw  MilHe  and  you  a  few  nights  ago.  I  was  at  a 
dance  close  by,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  you.  I 
thought  you  had  left  London,"  she  said. 

"No;  but  I  am  leaving,"  Stretton  returned;  and  he 
went  on  to  describe  that  idyllic  future  which  Millie 
and  he  had  allotted  to  themselves.  The  summer  sun- 
light was  golden  in  the  air  about  them;  already  it 
seemed  that  new,  fresh  life  was  beginning.  "I  shall 
breed  horses  in  Kentucky.  I  was  recommended  to  it 
by  an  East  End  parson  called  Chase,  who  runs  a  mis- 
sion on  Stepney  Green.  I  used  to  keep  order  in  a 
billiard-room  at  his  mission  one  night  a  week,  when  1 
was  quartered  at  the  Tower.  A  queer  sort  of  creature. 
Chase;  but  his  judgment's  good,  and,  of  course,  he  is 
always  meeting  all  sorts  of  people." 

"Chase?"  Pamela  repeated;  and  she  retained  the 
name  in  her  memory. 

"But  he  doesn't  know  Millie,"  said  Stretton,  "and 
you  do.  And  so  what  you  said  troubles  me  very 
much.  If  I  go  away  remembering  your  words  and 
not  understanding  them,  I  shall  go  away  uneasy.  I 
shall  remain  uneasy." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Pamela  replied.  "I  broke  a  rule  of 
mine  in  saying  what  I  did,  a  rule  not  to  interfere.  And 
I  see  now  that  I  did  very  wrong  in  breaking  it.  I  will 
not  break  it  again.     You  must  forget  my  words." 

There  was  a  quiet  decision  in  her  manner  which 
warned  Tony  that  no  persuasions  would  induce  her 
to  explain.  He  gave  up  his  attempt  and  turned  to 
another  subject. 

"I  have  something  else  to  ask — not  a  question  this 
time,   but   a  favor.      You   could    be    a   very   stanch 

54 


THE   TRUANTS 

friend,  Miss  Mardale,  if  you  chose.  Millie  will  be 
lonely  after  I  have  gone.  You  were  a  great  friend  of 
hers  once — be  a  friend  of  hers  again." 

Pamela  hesitated.  The  promise  which  he  sought 
on  the  face  of  it  no  doubt  looked  eas}-  of  fulfilment. 
But  Tony  Stretton  had  been  right  in  one  conjecture. 
She  had  spoken  the  words  which  troubled  him  from  a 
definite  reason,  and  that  reason  assured  her  now  that 
this  promise  might  lay  upon  her  a  burden,  and  a  bur- 
den of  a  heavy  kind.  And  she  shrank  from  all  bur- 
dens. On  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  doubt  that 
she  had  caused  Tony  much  uneasiness.  He  would  go 
away,  on  a  task  which,  as  she  saw  very  clearly,  would 
be  more  arduous  by  far  than  even  he  suspected — he 
would  go  away  troubled  and  perplexed.  That  could 
not  be  helped.  But  she  might  lighten  the  trouble,  and 
make  the  perplexity  less  insistent,  if  she  granted  the 
favor  which  he  sought.     It  seemed  churlish  to  refuse. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  reluctantly.     "I  promise." 

Already  Tonj^'s  face  showed  his  relief.  She  had 
given  her  promise  reluctantly,  but  she  would  keep  it 
now.  Of  that  he  felt  assured,  and,  bidding  her  good- 
bye, he  turned  his  horse  and  cantered  back. 

Pamela  rode  homeward  more  slowly.  She  had 
proposed  to  keep  clear  of  entanglements  and  respon- 
sibilities, and,  behold!  the  meshes  were  about  her. 
She  had  undertaken  a  trust.  In  spite  of  herself  she 
had  ceased  to  be  the  looker-on. 


VI 
NEWS   OF   TONY 

THE  promise  which  Pamela  had  given  was  a  great 
relief  to  Tony;  he  went  about  the  work  of  pre- 
paring for  his  departure  with  an  easier  mind.  It  was 
even  in  his  thoughts  when  he  stood  with  his  wife  upon 
the  platform  of  Eiiston  station  five  minutes  before 
his  train  started  for  Liverpool. 

"She  will  be  a  good  friend,  Millie,"  he  said.  "Count 
on  her  till  I  send  for  you.  I  think  I  am  right  to  go, 
even  though  I  don't  understand — " 

He  checked  himself  abruptly.  Millie,  however, 
paid  heed  only  to  the  first  clause  of  his  sentence. 

"Of  course  you  are  right,"  she  said,  with  a  confi- 
dence which  brought  an  answering  smile  to  his  face. 

She  watched  the  red  tail-light  of  the  train  until  it 
disappeared,  and  drove  home  alone  to  the  big,  dreary 
house.  It  seemed  ten  times  more  dreary,  ten  times 
more  silent  than  ever  before.  She  was  really  alone 
now.  But  her  confidence  in  herself  and  in  Tony  was 
still  strong.  "I  can  wait,"  she  said,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  courage  rejoiced  her.  She  walked 
from  room  to  room  and  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  each, 
realizing  that  the  coldness,  the  dingy  look  of  the  fur- 
niture, and  the  empty  silence  had  no  longer  the  power 
to  oppress  her.  She  even  hesitated  at  the  library 
door  with  her  fingers  on  the  key.  But  it  was  not  until 
the  next  day  that  she  unlocked  it  and  threw  it  open. 

S6 


THE   TRUANTS 

For  Pamela,  mindful  of  her  promise,  called  in  the 
afternoon.  Millicent  was  still  uplifted  by  her  con- 
fidence. 

"I  can  wait  quite  patiently,"  she  said;  and  Pamela 
scrutinized  her  with  some  anxiety;  for  Millicent  was 
speaking  feverishly,  as  though  she  labored  under  an 
excitement.  Was  her  courage  the  mere  effervescence 
of  that  excitement,  or  was  it  a  steady,  durable  thing? 
Pamela  led  her  friend  on  to  speak  of  the  life  which  she 
and  Tony  had  led  in  the  big  house,  sounding  her  the 
while  so  that  she  might  come  upon  some  answer  to 
that  question.  And  thus  it  happened  that,  as  they 
came  down  the  stairs  together,  Millicent  again  stopped 
before  the  library  door. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "This  room  always  seemed  to 
me  typical  of  the  whole  house,  typical  too  of  the  lives 
we  led  in  it." 

She  unlocked  the  door  suddenly  and  flung  it  open. 
The  floor  of  the  library  was  below  the  level  of  the  hall, 
and  a  smooth  plane  of  wood  sloped  down  to  it  very 
gradually  from  the  threshold. 

"There  used  to  be  steps  here  once,  but  before  my 
time,"  said  Millicent.  She  went  down  into  the  room. 
Pamela  followed  her,  and  understood  why  those  two 
steps  had  been  removed.  Although  the  book-shelves 
rose  on  every  wall  from  floor  to  ceiling,  it  was  not  as 
a  library  that  this  room  was  used.  Heavy  black  cur- 
tains draped  it  with  a  barbaric  profusion.  The  centre 
of  the  room  was  clear  of  furniture,  and  upon  the  carpet 
in  that  clear  space  was  laid  a  purple  drugget;  and  on 
the  drugget  opposite  to  each  other  stood  two  strong 
wooden  crutches.  The  room  was  a  mortuary  cham- 
ber— nothing  less.  On  those  two  crutches  the  dead 
were  to  lie  awaiting  burial. 

57 


THE   TRUANTS 

Millie  Stretton  shook  her  shoulders  with  a  kind  of 
shiver. 

"  Oh,  how  I  used  to  hate  this  room,  hate  knowing 
that  it  was  here,  prepared  and  ready!" 

Pamela  could  understand  how  the  knowledge  would 
work  upon  a  woman  of  emotions,  whose  nerves  were  al- 
ready strung  to  exasperation  by  the  life  she  led.  For 
even  to  her  there  was  something  eerie  in  the  disposi- 
tion of  the  room.  It  looked  out  upon  a  dull  yard  of 
stone  at  the  back  of  the  house;  the  light  was  very  dim, 
and  the  noise  of  the  streets  hardly  the  faintest  whis- 
per; there  were  a  chill  and  a  dampness  in  the  air. 

"How  I  hated  it!"  MiUie  repeated.  "I  used  to  lie 
awake  and  think  of  it.  I  used  to  imagine  it  more 
silent  than  any  other  of  the  silent  rooms,  and  emptier 
— emptier  because  day  and  night  it  seemed  to  claim  an 
inhabitant,  and  to  claim  it  as  a  right.  That  was  the 
horrible  thing.  The  room  was  waiting — waiting  for 
us  to  be  carried  down  that  wooden  bridge  and  laid  on 
the  crutches  here,  each  in  our  turn.  It  became  just 
a  symbol  of  the  whole  house.  For  what  is  the  house, 
Pamela?  A  place  that  should  have  been  a  place  of 
life,  and  is  a  place  merely  expecting  death.  Look  at 
the  books  reaching  up  to  the  ceiling,  never  taken  down, 
never  read,  for  the  room's  a  room  for  coffins.  It  wasn't 
merely  a  symbol  of  the  house — that  wasn't  the  worst 
of  it.  It  was  a  sort  of  image  of  our  lives,  the  old  man's 
up-stairs,  Tony's  and  mine  down  here.  We  were  all 
doing  nothing,  neither  suffering  nor  enjoying,  but  just 
waiting — waiting  for  death.  Nothing,  you  see,  could 
happen  in  this  house  but  death.  Until  it  came  there 
would  only  be  silence  and  emptiness." 

Millie  Stretton  finished  her  outburst,  and  stood  dis- 
mayed as  though  the  shadow  of  those  past  days  were 

S8 


THE   TRUANTS 

still  about  her.  The  words  she  had  spoken  must  have 
seemed  exaggerated  and  even  theatrical,  but  for  her 
aspect  as  she  spoke  them.  Her  whole  frame  shud- 
dered, her  face  had  the  shrinking  look  of  fear.  She 
recovered  herself,  however,  in  a  moment. 

"But  that  time's  past,"  she  said.  "Tony's  gone, 
and  I — I  am  waiting  for  life  now.  I  am  only  a  lodger, 
you  see.     A  month  or  two,  and  I  pack  my  boxes." 

She  turned  towards  the  door  and  stopped.  The  hall 
door  had  just  at  that  moment  opened.  Pamela  heard 
a  man's  footsteps  sound  heavily  upon  the  floor  of  the 
hall  and  then  upon  the  stairs. 

"My  father-in-law,"  said  Millie. 

"This  was  his  doing?"  asked  Pamela. 

"Yes,"  repHed  Millie.  "It's  strange,  isn't  it?  But 
there's  something  stranger  still." 

The  footsteps  had  now  ceased.  Millie  led  the  way 
back  to  her  room. 

"When  I  got  home  yesterday,"  she  related,  "I  had 
Tony's  letter  announcing  his  departure  taken  up  to 
Sir  John.  I  waited  for  him  to  send  for  me.  He  did 
not.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  expected  he  would.  You 
see,  he  has  never  shown  the  least  interest  in  us.  How- 
ever, when  I  went  up  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner, 
I  saw  that  the  candles  were  all  lighted  in  Tony's  room 
next  door,  and  his  clothes  laid  out  upon  the  bed.  I 
went  in  and  put  the  candles  out  —  rather  quickly." 
Her  voice  shook  a  little  upon  those  last  two  words. 
Pamela  nodded  her  head  as  though  she  understood, 
and  Millicent  went  on,  after  a  short  pause: 

"  It  troubled  me  to  see  them  burning — it  troubled  me 
very  much.  And  when  I  came  down -stairs  I  told  the 
footman  the  candles  were  not  to  be  lit  again,  since 
Tony  had  gone  away.     He  answered  that  they  had 

59 


THE   TRUANTS 

been  lit  by  Sir  John's  orders.  At  first  I  thought  that 
Sir  John  had  not  troubled  to  read  the  letter  at  all.  I 
thought  that  all  the  more  because  he  never  once,  either 
during  dinner  or  afterwards,  mentioned  Tony's  name 
or  seemed  to  remark  his  absence.  But  it  was  not  so. 
He  has  given  orders  that  every  night  the  room  is  to 
be  ready  and  the  candles  lit  as  though  Tony  were  here 
still,  or  might  walk  in  at  the  door  at  any  moment.  I 
suppose  that,  after  all,  in  a  queer  way  he  cares." 

Again  her  voice  faltered;  and  again  a  question  rose 
up  insistent  in  Pamela's  mind.  She  knew  her  friend, 
and  it  was  out  of  her  knowledge  that  she  had  spoken 
long  ago  in  Tony's  presence  when  she  had  said,  "Her 
husband  should  never  leave  her."  It  was  evident  that 
Tony's  departure  had  caused  his  wife  great  sufifering. 

Millicent  had  let  that  fact  escape  in  spite  of  her 
exaltation.  Pamela  welcomed  it,  but  she  asked:  "Was 
that  regret  a  steady  and  durable  thing?" 

Pamela  left  London  the  next  day  with  her  question 
unanswered,  and  for  two  months  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity for  her  of  discovering  an  answer.  Often  during 
that  August  and  September,  on  the  moors  in  Scot- 
land or  at  her  own  home  in  Leicestershire,  she  would 
think  of  Millie  Stretton,  in  the  hot  and  dusty  town 
among  the  houses  where  the  blinds  were  drawn.  She 
imagined  her  sitting  over  against  the  old,  stern,  impas- 
sive man  at  dinner,  or  wearily  reading  to  him  his  news- 
paper at  night.  Had  the  regret  dwindled  to  irritation, 
and  the  loneliness  begotten  petulance? 

Indeed,  those  months  were  dull  and  wearisome 
enough  for  Millicent.  No  change  of  significance  came 
in  the  routine  of  that  monotonous  household.  Sir 
John  went  to  his  room  perhaps  a  little  earlier  than  had 
been  his  wont,  his  footsteps  dragged  along  the  floor 

60 


THE   TRUANTS 

for  a  while  longer,  and  his  light  burned  in  the  window 
after  the  dawn  had  come.  Finally  he  ceased  to  leave 
his  room  at  all.  But  that  was  all.  For  Millicent,  how- 
ever, the  weeks  passed  easily.  Each  day  brought  her 
a  day  nearer  to  the  sunlit  farm  fronting  the  open  plain. 
She  marked  the  weeks  off  in  her  diary  with  a  growing 
relief;  for  news  kept  coming  from  America,  and  the 
news  was  good. 

Early  in  October,  Pamela  passed  through  London 
on  her  way  to  Sussex,  and  broke  her  journey  that  she 
might  see  her  friend. 

"Frances  Millingham  is  writing  to  you,"  she  said. 
"She  wants  you  to  stay  with  her  in  Leicestershire.  I 
shall  be  there,  too.     I  hope  you  will  come." 

"When?" 

"At  the  beginning  of  the  new  year." 

Millicent  laughed. 

"I  shall  have  left  England  before  then.  Tony  will 
have  made  his  way,"  she  said,  with  a  joyous  conviction. 

"There  might  be  delays,"  Pamela  suggested,  in  a 
very  gentle  voice.  For  suddenly  there  had  risen  be- 
fore her  mind  the  picture  of  a  terrace  high  above  a 
gorge  dark  with  cypresses.  She  saw  again  the  Medi- 
terranean, breaking  in  gold  along  the  curving  shore, 
and  the  gardens  of  the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo.  She 
heard  a  young  girl  prophesying  success  upon  that  ter- 
race with  no  less  certainty  than  Millicent  had  used. 
Her  face  softened  and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  very  wist- 
ful look.  She  took  out  her  watch  and  glanced  at  it. 
It  was  five  o'clock.  The  school  -  children  had  gone 
home  by  now  from  the  little  school-house  in  the  square 
of  Roquebrune.  Was  the  school-master  leaning  over 
the  parapet  looking  downward  to  the  station  or  to 
the  deserted  walk  in   front   of  the  Casino  ?     Was   a 

6i 


THE  TRUANTS 

train  passing  along  the  sea's  edge  towards  France  and 
Paris  ? 

"One  must  expect  delays,  Millie,"  she  insisted;  and 
again  Millie  laughed. 

"I  have  had  letters.  I  am  expecting  another.  It 
should  have  come  a  fortnight  since;"  and  she  told 
Pamela  what  the  letters  had  contained. 

At  first  Tony  had  been  a  little  bewildered  by  the 
activity  of  New  York,  after  his  quiescent  years.  But 
he  had  soon  made  an  acquaintance,  and  the  acquaint- 
ance had  become  a  friend.  The  two  men  had  deter- 
mined to  go  into  partnership;  a  farm  in  Kentucky  was 
purchased,  each  man  depositing  an  equal  share  of  the 
purchase-money. 

"Six  weeks  ago  they  left  New  York.  Tony  said  I 
would  not  hear  from  him  at  once." 

And  while  they  were  sitting  together  there  came  a 
knock  upon  the  door,  and  two  letters  were  brought  in 
for  Millicent.  One  she  tossed  upon  the  table;  with 
the  other  in  her  hand  she  turned  triumphantly  to 
Pamela. 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked.  "I  have  been  waiting 
so  long." 

"Read  it,  of  course,"  said  Pamela. 

Millie  tore  the  letter  open,  and  at  once  the  light  died 
out  of  her  eyes  and  the  smile  vanished  from  her  lips. 

"From  New  York,"  she  said,  half-way  between  per- 
plexity and  fear.  "He  writes  from  New  York;"  and 
with  trembling  fingers  she  turned  over  the  sheets  and 
read  the  letter  through. 

Pamela  watched  her,  saw  the  blood  ebb  from  her 
cheeks,  and  dejection  overspread  her  face.  A  great 
pity  welled  up  in  Pamela's  heart,  not  merely  for  the 
wife  who  read,  but  for  the  man  who  had  penned  that 

6? 


THE   TRUANTS 

letter — with  what  difficuhy,  she  wondered,  with  how 
much  pain!  Failure  was  the  message  which  it  car- 
ried. Millicent's  trembling  lips  told  her  that.  And 
again  the  village  of  Roquebrune  rose  up  before  her 
eyes  as  she  gazed  out  of  the  window  on  the  London 
square.  What  were  the  words  the  school-master  had 
spoken,  when,  stripped  of  his  dreams,  he  had  confessed 
success  was  not  for  him?  "We  must  forget  these  fine 
plans.  The  school  at  Roquebrune  will  send  no  dep- 
uty to  Paris."     Pamela's  eyes  grew  dim. 

She  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  for  some  while, 
but  hearing  no  movement  she  at  length  turned  back 
again.  The  sheets  of  the  letter  had  fallen  upon  the 
floor;  they  lay  scattered,  written  over  in  a  round, 
sprawling,  school-boy's  hand.  Millicent  sat  very  still, 
her  face  most  weary  and  despairing. 

"It's  all  over,"  she  said.  "The  friend  was  a  swin- 
dler. He  left  the  train  at  a  station  on  the  way  and 
disappeared.  Tony  went  on,  but  there  was  no  farm. 
He  is  back  in  New  York." 

"  But  the  man  can  be  found  ?" 

"He  belongs  to  a  gang.  There  is  little  chance,  and 
Tony  has  no  money.     He  will  take  no  more  of  mine." 

"He  is  coming  home,  then?"  said  Pamela. 

"No;  he  means  to  stay  and  retrieve  his  failures." 

Pamela  said  nothing,  and  Millicent  appealed  to  her. 
"  He  will  do  that,  don't  you  think  ?  Men  have  started 
badly  before,  and  have  succeeded,  and  have  not  taken 
so  very  long  to  succeed." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Pamela,  and  she  spoke  with  what 
hopefulness  she  could.  But  she  remembered  Tony 
Stretton.  Simplicity  and  good-humor  were  among  his 
chief  qualities;  he  was  a  loyal  friend,  and  he  had  pluck. 
Was  that  enough?     On  the  other  hand,  he  had  little 

63 


THE  TRUANTS 

knowledge  and  little  experience.  The  school-master 
of  Roqueburne  and  Tony  Stretton  stood  side  by  side 
in  her  thoughts.  She  was  not,  however,  to  be  put  to 
the  task  of  inventing  encouragements.  For  before  she 
could  open  her  lips  again  Millicent  said,  gently: 

"Will  you  mind  if  I  ask  to  be  left  alone?  Come 
again  as  soon  as  you  can.  But  this  afternoon — "  Her 
voice  broke  so  that  she  could  not  finish  her  sentence, 
and  she  turned  hastily  away.  However,  she  recov- 
ered her  self-control  and  went  down  the  stairs  with 
Pamela,  and  as  they  came  into  the  hall  their  eyes 
turned  to  the  library  door,  and  then  they  looked  at 
each  other.  Both  remembered  the  conversation  they 
had  had  within  that  room. 

"What  if  you  told  Sir  John?"  said  Pamela.  "It 
seems  that  he  does,  after  all,  care." 

"It  would  be  of  no  use,"  said  MiUicent,  shaking  her 
head.  "He  would  only  say,  'Let  him  come  home,' 
and  Tony  will  not.     Besides,  I  never  see  him  now." 

"Never?"  exclaimed  Pamela. 

"No;  he  does  not  leave  his  room."  She  lowered  her 
voice.  "I  do  not  believe  he  ever  will  leave  it  again. 
It's  not  that  he's  really  ill,  his  doctor  tells  me,  but  he's 
slowly  letting  himself  go." 

Pamela  answered  absently.  Sir  John  Stretton  and 
his  ailments  played  a  small  part  in  her  thoughts.  It 
seemed  that  the  library  was  again  to  become  typical 
of  the  house,  typical  of  the  life  its  inhabitants  led. 
Nothing  was  to  happen  then.  There  was  to  be  a 
mere  waiting  for  things  to  cease. 

But  a  second  letter  was  lying  up-stairs  unopened  on 
the  table,  and  that  letter,  harmless  as  it  appeared,  was 
strangely  to  influence  Millicent  Stretton 's  life.  It  was 
many  hours  afterwards  when  Millicent  opened  it,  and, 

64 


THE   TRUANTS 

compared  with  the  heavy  tidings  she  had  by  the  same 
post  received,  it  seemed  utterly  trifling  and  unimpor- 
tant. It  was  no  more,  indeed,  than  the  invitation  from 
Frances  MilHngham  of  which  Pamela  had  spoken. 
Pamela  forgot  it  altogether  when  she  heard  the  news 
which  Tony  had  sent,  but  she  was  to  be  affected  by  it, 
too.  For  she  had  made  a  promise  to  Tcny  Stretton, 
and,  as  he  had  foreseen,  she  would  at  any  cost  fulfil  it. 


VII 
THE   LADY   ON   THE   STAIRS 

WHITEWEBS,  Frances  Millingham's  house  in 
Leicestershire,  was  a  long,  white  building  with 
many  level  windows.  The  square  main  block  of  the 
building  rose  in  the  centre  two  stories  high,  and  on  each 
side  a  wing  of  one  story  projected.  Behind  the  house 
a  broad  lawn  sloped  to  the  bank  of  a  clear  and  shallow 
trout-stream,  with  an  avenue  of  old  elms  upon  its  left 
and  a  rose-garden  upon  its  right.  In  front  of  the  house 
a  paddock  made  a  ring  of  green,  and  round  this  ring 
the  carriage  -  drive  circled  from  a  white,  five-barred 
gate.  Whitewebs  stood  in  a  flat,  grass  country.  From 
the  upper  windows  you  looked  over  a  wide  plain  of 
meadows  and  old  trees,  so  level  that  you  had  on  a 
misty  day  almost  an  illusion  of  a  smooth  sea  and  the 
masts  of  ships;  from  the  lower,  you  saw  just  as  far  as 
the  nearest  hedge-row,  except  in  one  quarter  of  the 
compass.  For  to  the  southwest  the  ground  rose  very 
far  away,  and  at  the  limit  of  view  three  tall  poplars, 
set  in  a  tiny  garden  on  the  hill's  crest,  stood  clearly 
out  against  the  sky  like  sentinels  upon  a  frontier. 
These  three  landmarks  were  visible  for  many  miles 
around.  Pamela,  however,  saw  nothing  of  them  as 
she  was  driven  over  the  three  miles  from  the  station  to 
Whitewebs. 

It  was  late  on  a  February  evening,  and  already  dark. 
The  snow  had  fallen  heavily  during  the  last  week,  and 

66 


THE   TRUANTS 

as  Pamela  looked  out  through  the  carriage  windows 
she  saw  that  the  ground  glimmered  white  on  every 
side;  above  the  ground  a  mist  thickened  the  night  air, 
and  the  cold  was  piercing.  When  she  reached  the 
house  she  found  that  Frances  Millingham  was  waiting 
for  her  alone  in  the  big  inner  hall,  with  tea  ready; 
and  the  first  question  which  she  asked  of  her  hostess 
was: 

"Is  Millie  Stretton  here?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Frances  Millingham.  "She  has  been 
here  a  week." 

"I  couldn't  come  before,"  said  Pamela,  rather  re- 
morsefully. "My  father  was  at  home  alone.  How  is 
Millie  ?  I  have  not  seen  her  for  a  long  time.  Is  she 
enjoying  herself?" 

Pamela's  conscience  had  been  reproaching  her  all 
that  afternoon.  She  could  plead  in  her  own  behalf  that 
after  the  arrival  of  Tony's  letter  with  its  message  of 
failure  she  had  deferred  her  visit  into  the  country, 
and  had  stayed  in  London  for  a  week.  But  she  had 
not  returned  to  London  since,  and,  consequently,  she 
had  not  seen  her  friend.  She  had  heard  regularly 
from  her,  it  is  true;  she  also  knew  that  there  was  yet 
no  likelihood  of  the  hoped-for  change  in  the  life  of  that 
isolated  household  in  Berkeley  Square.  But  there 
had  been  certain  omissions  of  late  in  Millicent's  let- 
ters which  began  to  make  Pamela  anxious. 

"Yes,"  Frances  Millingham  replied;  "she  seems  to 
be  happy  enough." 

Lady  Millingham  related  the  names  of  her  guests. 
There  were  twelve  in  all,  but  the  first  ten  may  be 
omitted,  for  they  are  in  no  way  concerned  with  Pam- 
ela's history.  The  eleventh  name,  however,  was  that 
of  a  friend, 

67 


THE   TRUANTS 

"John  Mudge  is  here,  too,"  said  Frances  Milling- 
ham;  and  Pamela  said,  with  a  smile: 

"I  like  him." 

John  Mudge  was  that  elderly  man  whom  Alan  War- 
risden  had  seen  with  Pamela  at  Lady  Millingham's 
dance,  the  man  with  no  pleasure  in  his  face.  "And 
Mr.  Lionel  Gallon,"  said  Frances;  "you  know  him." 

"Do  I?"  asked  Pamela. 

"At  all  events,  he  knows  you." 

It  was  no  doubt  a  consequence  of  Pamela's  deliber- 
ate plan  never  to  be  more  than  an  on-looker,  that 
people  who  did  not  arouse  her  active  interest  passed 
in  and  out  of  her  acquaintanceship  like  shadows  upon 
a  mirror.  It  might  be  that  she  had  met  Lionel  Gallon. 
She  could  not  remember. 

"A  quarter  past  seven,"  said  Frances  Millingham, 
glancing  at  the  clock.     "We  dine  at  eight." 

Pamela  dressed  quickly,  in  the  hope  that  she  might 
gain  a  few  minutes  before  dinner  wherein  to  talk  to 
Millicent.  She  came  down  the  stairs  with  this  object 
a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  before  eight,  but  she  was  to 
be  disappointed.  The  stairs  descended  into  the  big 
inner  hall  of  the  house,  and  just  below  the  roof  of  the 
hall  they  took  a  bend.  As  Pamela  came  round  this 
bend  the  hall  was  exposed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  saw, 
below  her,  not  Millicent  at  all,  but  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  was  standing  by  the  fireplace,  on  her  left  hand  as 
she  descended,  looking  into  the  fire,  indeed,  so  that 
his  back  was  towards  her.  But  at  the  rustle  of  her 
frock  he  swung  round  quickly  and  looked  up.  He 
now  moved  a  few  steps  towards  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
with  a  particular  eagerness.  Pamela  at  that  moment 
had  just  come  round  the  bend,  and  was  on  the  small 
platform  from  which  the  final  flight  of  steps  began. 

68 


THE  TRUANTS 

The  staircase  was  dimly  lit,  and  the  panelling  of  the 
wall  against  which  it  rested  dark.  Pamela  took  a 
step  or  two  downward,  and  the  Hght  of  the  hall 
struck  upon  her  face.  The  man  came  instantly  to  a 
dead  stop,  and  a  passing  disappointment  was  visible 
upon  his  upturned  face.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
expecting  some  one  else.  Pamela  on  her  side  was  dis- 
appointed, too,  for  she  had  hoped  to  find  Millicent. 
She  went  down  the  stairs  and  stopped  on  the  third  step 
from  the  bottom. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Mardale?"  said  the  man. 
"You  have  arrived  at  last." 

The  man  was  Lionel  Gallon.  Pamela  recognized  him 
now  that  they  stood  face  to  face;  she  had  met  him,  but 
she  had  retained  no  impression  of  him  in  her  memory. 
For  the  future,  however,  she  would  retain  a  very  dis- 
tinct impression.  For  her  instincts  told  her  at  once 
and  clearly  that  she  thoroughly  disliked  the  man.  He 
was  thirty-three  in  years,  and  looked  a  trifle  younger, 
although  his  hair  was  turning  gray.  He  was  clean 
shaven,  handsome  beyond  most  men,  and  while  his 
features  were  of  a  classical  regularity  and  of  an  almost 
feminine  delicacy,  they  were  still  not  without  char- 
acter. There  was  determination  in  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  were  naturally  watchful.  It  was  his  manner 
which  prompted  Pamela's  instinct  of  dislike.  Assur- 
ance gave  to  it  a  hint  of  arrogance;  familiarity  made  it 
distasteful.  He  might  have  been  her  host  from  the 
warmth  of  his  welcome.  Pamela  put  on  her  sedatest 
air. 

"I  am  quite  well,"  she  said,  with  just  sufficient  sur- 
prise to  suggest  the  question,  "What  in  the  world  has 
my  health  to  do  with  you  ?"  She  came  down  the  three 
steps,  and  added:  "We  are  the  first,  I  suppose." 

69 


THE   TRUANTS 

"There  may  be  others  in  the  drawing-room,"  said 
Gallon,  with  a  glance  towards  the  open  door.  But 
Pamela  did  not  take  the  hint.  For  one  thing,  no  sound 
of  any  voice  was  audible  in  that  room;  for  another, 
Mr.  Gallon  was  plainly  anxious  to  be  rid  of  her.  Even 
as  he  was  speaking  his  glance  strayed  past  her  up  the 
staircase.  Pamela  disliked  him;  she  was,  besides,  dis- 
appointed by  him  of  that  private  talk  with  Millicent, 
which  she  desired.  She  was  in  a  mood  for  mischief. 
She  changed  her  manner  at  once,  and,  crossing  over  to 
the  fireplace,  engaged  Mr.  Gallon  in  conversation  with 
the  utmost  cordiality,  and  as  she  talked  she  began  to  be 
amused.  Gallon  became  positively  uneasy;  he  could 
not  keep  still,  he  answered  her  at  random.  For  in- 
stance, she  put  to  him  a  question  about  the  number 
of  guests  in  the  house.  He  did  not  answer  at  all  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  when  he  did  speak,  is  was  to  say: 
"Will  the  frost  hold,  do  you  think?" 

"There's  no  sign  of  a  thaw  to-night,"  replied  Pame- 
la; and  the  sounds  for  which  both  were  listening  be- 
came audible — the  shutting  of  a  door  on  the  landing 
above,  and  then  the  rustle  of  a  frock  upon  the  stairs. 
Mr.  Gallon  was  evidently  at  his  wit's  end  what  to  do; 
and  Pamela,  taking  her  elbow~from  the  mantel-piece, 
said,  with  great  sympathy: 

"One  feels  a  little  in  the  way — " 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  Miss  Mardale,"  Gallon  answered, 
hurriedly,  with  a  flustered  air. 

Pamela  looked  at  her  companion  with  the  blankest 
stare  of  surprise. 

"I  was  going  to  say,  when  you  interrupted  me,"  she 
went  on,  "that  one  feels  a  little  in  the  way  when  one 
has  brought  a  couple  of  horses,  as  I  have,  and  the  frost 
holds." 

70 


THE  TRUANTS 

Gallon  grew  red.  He  had  fallen  into  a  trap ;  his  very 
hurry  to  interrupt  what  appeared  to  be  almost  an 
apology  betrayed  that  the  lady  upon  the  stairs  and 
Mr.  Lionel  Gallon  had  arranged  to  come  down  early. 
He  had  protested  overmuch.  However,  he  looked 
Pamela  steadily  in  the  face,  and  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Mardale." 

He  spoke  loudly,  rather  too  loudly  for  the  ears  of 
any  one  so  near  to  him  as  Pamela.  The  sentence,  too, 
was  uttered  with  a  note  of  warning.  There  was  even 
a  suggestion  of  command.  The  command  was  obeyed 
by  the  lady  on  the  stairs,  for  all  at  once  the  frock 
ceased  to  rustle  and  there  was  silence.  Lionel  Gallon 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Pamela's  face,  but  she  did 
not  look  towards  the  stairs,  and  in  a  little  while  again 
the  sound  was  heard.  But  it  diminished.  The  lady 
upon  the  stairs  was  ascending,  and  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards a  door  closed  overhead.  She  had  beaten  a  re- 
treat. 

Gallon  could  not  quite  keep  the  relief  which  he  felt 
out  of  his  eyes  or  the  smile  from  his  lips.  Pamela 
noticed  the  change  with  amusement.  She  was  not 
in  the  mind  to  spare  him  uneasiness,  and  she  said, 
looking  at  the  wall  above  the  mantel-piece: 

"This  is  an  old  mirror,  don't  you  think?  From 
what  period  would  you  date  it?" 

Gallon's  thoughts  had  been  so  intent  upon  the  stairs 
that  he  had  paid  no  heed  to  the  ornaments  above  the 
mantel-shelf.  Now,  however,  he  took  note  of  them 
with  a  face  grown  at  once  anxious.  The  mirror  was 
of  an  oval  shape  and  framed  in  gold.  Under  the  pre- 
tence of  admiring  it,  he  moved  and  stood  behind 
Pamela,  looking  into  the  mirror  over  her  shoulder, 
seeing  what  she  could  see,  and  wondering  how  much 

71 


THE   TRUANTS 

she  had  seen.  He  was  to  some  extent  reHeved.  The 
stairs  were  ill-Hghted,  the  panelling  of  the  wall  dark 
mahogany;  moreover,  the  stairs  bent  round  into  the 
hall  just  below  the  level  of  the  roof,  and  at  the  bend 
the  lady  on  the  stairs  had  stopped.  Pamela  could 
not  have  seen  her  face.  Pamela,  indeed,  had  seen 
nothing  more  than  a  black-satin  slipper  arrested  in  the 
act  of  taking  a  step,  and  a  black  gown  with  some 
touches  of  red  at  the  waist.  She  had,  however,  no- 
ticed the  attitude  of  the  wearer  of  the  dress  when  the 
warning  voice  had  brought  her  to  a  stop.  The  lady 
had  stooped  down  and  had  cautiously  peered  into  the 
hall.  In  this  attitude  she  had  been  able  to  see,  and 
yet  had  avoided  being  seen. 

Pamela,  however,  did  not  relieve  Mr.  Gallon  of  his 
suspense.  She  walked  into  the  drawing-room  and 
waited,  with  an  amused  curiosity,  for  the  appearance 
of  the  black  dress.  It  was  long  in  coming,  however. 
Pamela  had  no  doubt  that  it  would  come  last,  and  in 
a  hurry,  as  though  its  wearer  had  been  late  in  dressing. 
But  Pamela  was  wrong.  Millicent  Stretton  came  into 
the  room  dressed  in  a  frock  of  white  lace,  and  at  once 
dinner  was  announced.  Pamela  turned  to  Frances 
Millingham  with  a  startled  face: 

"Are  we  all  here?" 

Frances  Millingham  looked  round. 

"Yes;"  and  Lord  Millingham  at  that  moment  offered 
his  arm  to  Pamela.  As  she  took  it,  she  looked  at 
Millicent,  who  was  just  rising  from  her  chair.  Milli- 
cent was  wearing  with  her  white  dress  black  shoes  and 
stockings.  She  might  be  wearing  them  deliberately, 
of  course;  on  the  other  hand,  she  might  be  wearing 
them  because  she  had  not  had  time  to  change  them. 
It  was  Millicent,  certainly,  who  had  come  down  last. 

72 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Mardale,"  Gallon  had  said, 
and  it  was  upon  the  "Miss  Mardale"  that  his  voice 
had  risen.  The  emphasis  of  his  warning  had  been 
laid  upon  the  name. 

As  she  placed  her  hand  on  her  host's  arm,  Pamela 
said: 

"It  was  very  kind  of  Frances  to  ask  Millie  Stretton 
here." 

"Oh  no,"  Lord  Millingham  replied.  "You  see, 
Frances  knew  her.  We  all  knew,  besides,  that  she  is 
a  great  friend  of  yours." 

"Yes,"  said  Pamela;  "I  suppose  everybody  here 
knows  that  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Stretton  has  talked  of  it,"  he  answered,  with  a 
smile. 

The  "Miss  Mardale"  might  be  a  warning,  then,  to 
Millicent  that  her  friend  had  arrived — was  actually 
then  in  the  hall.  There  was  certainly  no  one  but 
Millicent  in  that  house  who  could  have  been  conscious 
of  any  need  to  shrink  back  at  the  warning,  who  would 
have  changed  her  dress  to  prevent  a  recognition;  and 
Millicent  herself  need  not  have  feared  the  warning  had 
there  not  been  something  to  conceal — something  to 
conceal  especially  from  Pamela,  who  had  said,  "  I  have 
promised  your  husband  I  would  be  your  friend." 
There  was  the  heart  of  Pamela's  trouble. 

She  gazed  down  the  two  lines  of  people  at  the  dinner- 
table,  hoping  against  hope  that  she  had  overlooked 
some  one.  There  was  no  one  wearing  a  black  gown. 
All  Pamela's  amusement  in  outwitting  Gallon  had  long 
since  vanished.  If  Tony  had  only  taken  her  advice 
without  question,  she  thought.  "Millie's  husband 
should  never  leave  her.  If  he  goes  away  he  should 
take  her  with  him."     The  words  rang  in  her  m.ind  all 

73 


THE   TRUANTS 

through  dinner  like  the  refrain  of  a  song  of  which  one 
cannot  get  rid.  And  at  the  back  of  her  thoughts  there 
steadily  grew  and  grew  a  great  regret  that  she  had 
ever  promised  Tony  to  befriend  his  wife. 

That  Millicent  was  the  lady  on  the  stairs  she  no  long- 
er dared  to  doubt.  Had  she  doubted,  her  suspicions 
would  have  been  confirmed  immediately  dinner  was 
over.  In  the  drawing-room  Millicent  avoided  any 
chance  of  a  private  conversation,  and  since  they  had 
not  met  for  so  long,  such  avoidance  was  unnatural. 
Pamela,  however,  made  no  effort  to  separate  her 
friend  from  the  other  women.  She  had  a  plan  in  her 
mind,  and  in  pursuit  of  it  she  occupied  a  sofa,  upon 
which  there  was  just  room  for  two.  She  sat  in  the 
middle  of  the  sofa,  so  that  no  one  else  could  sit  on  it, 
and  just  waited  until  the  men  came  in.  Some  of  them 
crossed  at  once  to  Pamela,  but  she  did  not  budge  an 
inch.  They  were  compelled  to  stand.  Finally,  Mr. 
Mudge  approached  her,  and  immediately  she  moved 
into  one  comer  and  bade  him  take  the  other.  Mr. 
Mudge  accepted  the  position  with  alacrity.  The  others 
began  to  move  away;  a  couple  of  card -tables  were 
made  up.     Pamela  and  John  Mudge  were  left  alone. 

"You  know  every  one  here?"  she  asked. 

"No,  very  few." 

"Mr.  Gallon,  at  all  events?" 

Mr.  Mudge  glanced  shrewdly  at  his  questioner. 

"Yes,  I  know  him  slightly,"  he  answered. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know." 

Mr.  Mudge  sat  for  a  moment  or  two  with  his  hands 
upon  his  knees  and  his  eyes  staring  in  front  of  him. 
Pamela  knew  his  history,  and  esteemed  his  judgment. 
He  had  built  up  a  great  contracting  business  from  the 
poorest  beginnings,  and  he  remained  without  bombast 

74 


THE   TRUANTS 

or  arrogance.  He  was  to  be  met  nowadays  in  many 
houses,  and,  while  he  had  acquired  manners,  he  had 
lost  nothing  of  his  simplicity.  The  journey  from  the 
Seven  Dials  to  Belgrave  Square  is  a  test  of  furnace 
heat,  and  John  Mudge  had  betrayed  no  flaws.  There 
was  a  certain  forlornness,  too,  in  his  manner  which  ap- 
pealed particularly  to  Pamela.  She  guessed  that  the 
apples,  for  which  through  a  lifetime  he  had  grasped, 
had  crumbled  into  ashes  between  his  fingers.  Sym- 
pathy taught  her  that  the  man  was  lonely.  He  wan- 
dered through  the  world  amid  a  throng  of  acquaint- 
ances; but  how  many  friends  had  he,  she  wondered. 
She  did  not  interrupt  his  reflections,  and  he  turned  to 
her  at  last,  with  an  air  of  decision. 

"I  am  on  strange  ground  here,"  he  said,  "as  you 
know.  I  am  the  outsider;  and  when  I  am  on  strange 
ground  I  go  warily.  If  I  am  asked  what  I  think  of 
this  man  or  that,  I  make  it  a  rule  to  praise." 

"Yes;  but  not  to  me,"  said  Pamela,  with  a  smile. 
"I  want  to  know  the  truth  to-night." 

Mudge  looked  at  her  deliberately,  and  no  less  deliber- 
ately he  spoke: 

"And  I  think  you  ought  to  "know  the  truth  to- 
night." 

Mudge,  then,  like  the  rest,  knew  that  she  was  Milli- 
cent's  friend.  Was  it  for  that  reason  that  she  ought 
to  know  the  truth  ? 

"I  know  Gallon  a  little,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  know 
a  good  deal  about  him.  Like  most  of  the  men  who 
know  him  I  dislike  him  heartily.  Women,  on  the 
other  hand,  like  him,  Miss  Mardale — like  him  too  well. 
Women  make  extraordinary  mistakes  over  men,  just 
as  men  do  over  women.  They  can  be  very  blind — 
like  your  friend — " 

75 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mudge  paused  for  an  appreciable  time.  Then  he 
went  on,  steadily: 

"Like  your  friend,  Lady  Millingham,  who  invites 
him  here." 

Pamela  was  grateful  for  the  delicacy  with  which  the 
warning  was  conveyed,  but  she  did  not  misunderstand 
it.  She  had  been  told  indirectly,  but  no  less  definite- 
ly on  that  account,  that  Millie  was  entangled. 

"Gallon  has  good  looks,  of  course,"  continued 
Mudge;  and  Pamela  uttered  a  little  exclamation  of 
contempt.     Mudge  smiled,  but  rather  sadly. 

"Oh,  it's  something.  All  people  have  not  your 
haughty  indifference  to  good  looks.  He  is  tall,  he 
has  a  face  which  is  a  face  and  not  a  pudding.  It's  a 
good  deal,  Miss  Mardale." 

Pamela  looked  in  surprise  at  the  stout,  heavily 
built  bald  man  who  spoke.  That  he  should  ever  have 
given  a  thought  to  how  he  looked  was  a  new  idea  to 
her.     It  struck  her  as  pathetic. 

"But  he  is  not  merely  good-looking.  He  is  clever, 
persistent  besides,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  un- 
troubled by  a  single  scruple  in  the  management  of  his 
life.  Altogether,  Miss  Mardale,  a  dangerous  man. 
How  does  he  live?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"I  neither  know  nor  care,"  said  Pamela. 

"Ah,  but  you  should  care,"  repHed  Mudge.  "The 
answer  is  instructive.  He  has  a  small  income — two 
hundred  a  year,  perhaps;  a  mere  nothing  compared 
with  what  he  spends — and  he  never  does  an  hour's 
work,  as  we  understand  work.  Yet  he  pays  his  card 
debts  at  his  club,  and  they  are  sometimes  heavy,  and 
he  wants  for  nothing.  How  is  it  done?  He  has  no 
prospect  of  an  inheritance,  so  post-obits  are  not  the 
explanation." 

76 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mr.   Mudge  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  waited. 
Pamela  turned  the  question  over  in  her  mind. 

"I  can't  guess  how  it's  done,"  she  said. 

"And  I  can  do  no  more  than  hint  the  answer,"  he 
replied.  "  He  rides  one  woman's  horses,  he  drives  an- 
other woman's  phaeton,  he  is  always  on  hand  to  take 
a  third  to  a  theatre,  or  to  make  up  a  luncheon-party 
with  a  fourth.  Shall  we  say  he  borrows  money  from 
a  fifth?  Shall  we  be  wrong  in  saying  it?"  And  sud- 
denly Mr.  Mudge  exclaimed,  with  a  heat  and  scorn 
which  Pamela  had  never  heard  from  him  before:  "A 
very  contemptible  existence,  anyway.  Miss  Mardale. 
But  the  man's  not  to  be  despised,  mind.  No,  that's 
the  worst  of  it.  Some  day,  perhaps,  a  strong  man 
will  rise  up  and  set  his  foot  on  him.  Till  that  time  he 
is  to  be  feared."  And  when  Pamela  by  a  gesture  re- 
jected the  word,  Mudge  repeated  it.  "Yes,  feared. 
He  makes  his  plans,  Miss  Mardale.  Take  a  purely 
imaginary  case,"  and  somehow,  although  he  laid  no 
ironic  stress  on  the  word  imaginary,  and  accompanied 
it  with  no  look,  but  sat  gazing  straight  in  front  of  him, 
Pamela  was  aware  that  it  was  a  real  case  he  was  going 
to  cite.  "  Imagine  a  young  and  pretty  woman  coming 
to  a  house  where  most  of  the  guests  were  strangers  to 
her;  imagine  her  to  be  of  a  friendly,  unsuspecting  tem- 
perament, rather  lonely,  perhaps,  and  either  unmar- 
ried or  separated  for  a  time  from  her  husband.  Add 
that  she  will  one  day  be  very  rich,  or  that  her  hus- 
band will  be.  Such  a  woman  might  be  his  prey,  un- 
less—" 

Pamela  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Unless  she  had  good  friends  to  help  her." 

Pamela's    face,    distressed    before,    grew    yet    more 
troubled  now.     The  burden  of  her  promise  was  being 

77 


THE   TRUANTS 

forced  upon  her  back.     It  seemed  she  was  not  for  one 
moment  to  be  allowed  to  forget  it. 

"I'll  tell  you  my  philosophy,  Miss  Mardale,"  Mudge 
continued,  "and  I  have  inferred  it  from  what  I  have 
seen.  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man  really  comes  to 
good  unless  he  has  started  in  life  with  the  ambition 
to  make  a  career  for  himself,  with  no  help  other  than 
his  hands  and  his  brains  afford.  Later  on  he  will 
learn  that  women  can  be  most  helpful;  later  on,  as  he 
gets  towards  middle  Ufe,  as  the  years  shorten  and 
shorten,  he  will  see  that  he  must  use  whatever  ex- 
traneous assistance  comes  his  way.  But  he  will  begin 
with  a  fearless  ambition  to  suflfice  with  his  own  hands 
and  head."  Mr.  Mudge  dropped  from  the  high  level 
of  his  earnestness.  He  looked  towards  Lionel  Gallon, 
who  was  seated  at  a  card-table,  and  the  contempt  again 
crept  into  his  voice.  "Now  that  man  began  life 
meaning  to  use  all  people  he  met,  and  especially  wom- 
en. Women  were  to  be  his  implements."  Mr.  Mudge 
smiled  suddenly.     "  He's  listening,"  he  said. 

"  But  he  is  too  far  away  to  hear,"  repHed  Pamela. 

"No  doubt;  but  he  knows  we  are  speaking  of  him. 
Look,  his  attitude  shows  it.  This,  you  see,  is  his 
battle-ground,  and  he  knows  the  arts  of  his  particular 
warfare.  A  drawing-room!  Mr.  Lionel  Gallon  fights 
among  the  teacups.  Gajolery  first,  and  God  knows 
by  what  means  afterwards.  But  he  wins.  Miss  Mar- 
dale;  don't  close  your  eyes  to  that!  Look,  I  told  you 
he  was  hstening.  The  rubber's  over,  and  he's  coming 
towards  us.  Oh,  he's  alert  upon  his  battle-ground! 
He  knows  what  men  think  of  him.  He's  afraid  lest  I 
should  tell  what  men  think  to  you.  But  he  comes  too 
late." 

Gallon  crossed  to  the  sofa,  and  stood  talking  there 

78 


THE   TRUANTS 

until  Frances  Millingham  lose.  Pamela  turned  to 
Mr.  Mudge  as  she  got  up. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,"  she  said,  gratefully. 

Mr.  Mudge  smiled. 

"No  need  for  thanks,"  said  he.  "I  am  very  glad 
you  came  to-night,  for  I  go  away  to-morrow." 

Pamela  went  to  her  room  and  sat  down  before  the 
fire.  What  was  to  be  done,  she  wondered.  She 
could  not  get  Lionel  Gallon  sent  away  from  the  house. 
It  would  be  no  use  even  if  she  could,  since  Millie 
had  an  address  in  town.  She  could  not  say  a  word 
openly. 

She  raised  her  head  and  spoke  to  her  maid. 

"Which  is  Mrs.  Stretton's  room?"  And  when  she 
had  the  answer  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  stood,  a 
figure  of  indecision.  She  did  not  plead  that  John 
Mudge  had  exaggerated  the  danger;  for  she  had  her- 
self foreseen  it  long  ago,  before  Millie's  marriage — even 
before  Millie's  engagement.  It  was  just  because  she 
had  foreseen  it  that  she  had  used  the  words  which  had 
so  rankled  in  Tony's  memory.  Bitterly  she  regretted 
that  she  had  ever  used  them;  greatly  she  wished  that 
she  could  doubt  their  wisdom.  But  she  could  not. 
Let  Millie's  husband  leave  her,  she  would  grieve  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  nature;  let  him  come  back  soon, 
she  would  welcome  him  with  a  joy  as  great.  Yes; 
but  he  must  come  back  soon.  Otherwise  she  would 
grow  used  to  his  absence ;  she  would  find  his  return  an 
embarrassment ,  for  it  would  be  the  return  of  a  stranger 
with  the  prerogative  of  a  husband;  she  might  even 
have  given  to  another  the  place  he  once  held  in  her 
thoughts.  And  the  other  might  be  a  Lionel  Gallon. 
For  this  was  Millicent's  character.  She  yielded  too 
easily  to  affection,  and  she  did  not  readily  distinguish 

79 


THE   TRUANTS 

between  affection  and  the  show  of  it.  She  paddled  in 
the  shallows  of  passion,  and  flattered  herself  that  she 
was  swimming  in  the  depths.  Grief  she  was  capable 
of — yes;  but  a  torrent  of  tears  obliterated  it.  Joy  she 
knew ;  but  it  was  a  thrill  with  her  lasting  an  hour. 

Pamela  walked  along  the  passage  and  knocked  at 
Millicent's  door,  saying  who  she  was.  Millicent  opened 
the  door,  and  received  her  friend  with  some  constraint. 

"Can  I  come  in?"  said  Pamela. 

"Of  course,"  said  Millie. 

They  sat  opposite  to  one  another  on  each  side  of  the 

fire. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went  to  bed,"  said 
Pamela.  "You  have  not  told  me  lately  in  your  let- 
ters how  Tony  is  getting  on." 

Millie  raised  her  hand  to  shield  her  face  from  the 
blaze  of  the  fire.  She  happened  to  shade  it  also  from 
the  eyes  of  Pamela;  and  she  made  no  reply. 

"Is  he  still  in  New  York?"  Pamela  asked;  and  then 
Millie  replied. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  slowly.  She  let 
her  hand  fall,  and  looked  straight  and  defiantly  at  her 
friend. 

"I  have  not  heard  from  him  for  a  long  while,"  she 
added;  and  as  she  spoke  there  crept  into  her  face  a 
look  of  disdain^ 


VIII 
GIDEON'S   FLEECE 

MILLICENT  was  reluctant  to  add  any  word  of  ex- 
planation. She  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
waiting,  it  seemed,  until  Pamela  should  see  fit  to  go. 
But  Pamela  remained,  and  of  the  two  women  she  was 
the  stronger  in  will  and  character.  She  sat,  with  her 
eyes  quietly  resting  upon  Millicent's  face;  and  in  a 
little  while  Millicent  began  reluctantly  to  speak.  As 
she  spoke  the  disdainful  droop  of  her  lips  became  more 
pronounced,  and  her  words  were  uttered  in  a  note  of 
petulance. 

"He  would  stay  to  retrieve  his  failure.  You  re- 
member?" she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Pamela. 

"  I  wrote  to  him  again  and  again  to  come  home,  but 
he  would  not.  I  couldn't  make  him  see  that  he  wasn't 
really  a  match  for  the  people  he  must  compete  with." 

Pamela  nodded  her  head. 

"You  wrote  that  to  him?" 

MiUicent  lifted  her  face  to  Pamela's. 

"I  put  it,  of  course,  with  less  frankness.  I  offered 
him,  besides,  the  rest  of  my  money,  so  that  he  might 
try  again ;  but  he  refused  to  take  a  farthing  more.  It 
was  unreasonable,  don't  you  think  ?  I  could  have  got 
on  without  it,  but  he  couldn't.  I  was  very  sorry  for 
him." 

"And  you  expressed  your  pity,  too?"  asked  Pamela. 
6  8i 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Millicent,  eagerly.  "But  he 
never  would  accept  it.  He  replied  cheerfully  that 
something  was  sure  to  happen  soon,  that  he  would  be 
sure  to  find  an  opening  soon.  But,  of  course,  he  never 
did.  It  was  not  likely  that  with  his  inexperience  he 
ever  would." 

Tony's  own  words  had  recoiled  upon  him.  On  the 
evening  when  he  had  first  broached  his  plan  to  Milli- 
cent in  Berkeley  Square,  he  had  laid  before  her,  among 
others,  this  very  obstacle,  thinking  that  she  ought  to 
be  aware  of  it,  and  never  doubting  but  that  he  would 
surmount  it.  The  honesty  of  his  nature  had  bidden 
him  speak  all  that  he  had  thought,  and  he  had  spoken 
without  a  suspicion  that  his  very  frankness  might 
put  in  her  mind  an  argument  to  belittle  him.  He  had 
seemed  strong  then,  because  he  knew  the  difficulties, 
and  counted  them  up  when  she  omitted  them.  His 
image  was  all  the  more  pale  and  ineffectual  now  be- 
cause, foreknowing  them  well,  he  had  not  mastered 
them. 

"I  wrote  to  him  at  last  that  it  wasn't  any  use  for 
him  to  go  on  with  the  struggle.  He  would  not  tell 
me  how  he  lived,  or  even  where.  I  had  to  send  my 
letters  to  a  post-office,  and  he  called  for  them.  He 
must  be  living  in  want,  in  misery.  I  wrote  to  him 
that  I  had  guessed  as  much  from  his  very  reticence, 
and  I  said  how  sorry  I  was.  Yet,  in  spite  of  what  I 
wrote,"  and  here  her  voice  hardened  a  little;  she 
showed  herself  as  a  woman  really  aggrieved — "in  spite 
of  what  I  wrote,  he  answered  me  in  a  quite  short  let- 
ter, saying  that  I  must  not  expect  to  hear  from  him 
again  until  he  had  recovered  from  his  defeat  and  was 
re-established  in  my  eyes.  I  can't  understand  that, 
can  you?" 

82 


THE  TRUANTS 

"I  think  so,"  Pamela  answered.  She  spoke  gently, 
for  there  was  something  to  be  said  upon  Millicent's 
side.  The  sudden  collapse  of  her  exaggerated  hopes, 
the  dreary  Hfe  she  led,  and  her  natural  disappointment 
at  the  failure  of  the  man  whom  she  had  married,  when 
once  he  stepped  down  into  the  arena  to  combat  with 
his  fellow-men.  These  things  could  not  fail  to  pro- 
voke, in  a  nature  so  easily  swayed  from  extreme  to 
extreme  as  MilHcent's,  impatience,  anger,  and  a  sense 
of  grievance.  Pamela  could  hold  the  balance  fairly 
enough  to  understand  that.  But  chiefly  she  was  think- 
ing of  Tony — Tony  hidden  away  in  some  lodging  in 
New  York,  a  lodging  so  squalid  that  he  would  not  give 
the  address,  and  vainly  seeking  for  an  opportunity 
whereby  he  would  make  a  rapid  fortune;  very  likely 
going  short  of  food,  and  returning  home  at  night  to 
read  over  a  letter  from  his  wife  of  which  every  line 
cried  out  to  him,  with  a  contemptuous  pity:  "You  are 
a  failure.  You  are  a  failure.  Come  home."  Pamela's 
heart  went  out  in  pity,  too.  But  there  was  no  con- 
tempt in  her  pity.  She  could  not  but  admire  the  per- 
severance with  which,  on  this,  the  first  time  that  he 
had  ever  walked  hand  in  hand  with  misery,  he  en- 
dured its  companionship. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "You  say  he 
answered  you  in  that  short  way  in  spite  of  what  you 
wrote.     I  think  it  was  not  in  spite  of,  but  because — " 

Millie  Stretton  shook  her  head. 

"No,  that's  not  the  reason,"  she  replied.  She  gave 
one  herself,  and  it  fairly  startled  Pamela.  "Tony  no 
longer  cares  for  me.  He  means  to  go  out  of  my  life 
altogether." 

Pamela  remembered  what  store  Tony  had  always 
pet  upon  his  wife,  how  he  had  spoken  of  her  that  July 

83 


THE   TRUANTS 

morning  in  the  park,  and  how  he  had  looked  at  the 
moment  when  he  spoke.  It  was  just  because  he  cared 
so  much  that  he  had  taken  his  wild  leap  into  the  dark. 
That,  at  all  events,  she  believed,  and  in  such  a  strain 
she  replied.     But  Millicent  would  not  be  persuaded. 

"Before  Tony  went  away,"  she  said,  stubbornly, 
"he  let  me  see  that  he  no  longer  cared.  He  was  losing 
the  associations  which  used  to  be  vivid  in  his  memory. 
Our  marriage  had  just  become  a  dull,  ordinary  thing. 
He  had  lost  the  spirit  in  which  he  entered  into  it." 

Again  Tony's  indiscreet  frankness  had  done  him 
wrong.  The  coon  song,  which  was  always  to  be  as- 
sociated in  his  mind  with  the  summer  night,  and  the 
islets  in  the  sea,  and  the  broad  stretch  of  water  trem- 
bling away  in  the  moonlight  across  to  the  lights  of 
the  yachts  in  Oban  Bay,  had  become  a  mere  coon 
song  "sung  by  some  one."  Millicent  had  often  re- 
membered and  reflected  upon  that  unfortunate  sen- 
tence, and  as  her  disappointment  in  Tony  increased, 
and  the  pitying  contempt  gradually  crept  into  her 
mind,  she  read  into  it  more  and  more  of  what  Tony 
had  not  meant. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  wrong,"  said  Pamela,  very  ear- 
nestly. "He  went  away  because  he  cared.  He  went 
away  to  keep  your  married  life  and  his  from  fading 
away  into  the  colorless,  dull,  ordinary  thing  it  so  fre- 
quently becomes.  He  has  lost  ground  by  his  failure. 
No  doubt  your  own  letters  have  shown  that;  and  he 
is  silent  now  in  order  to  keep  what  he  has.  You  have 
said  it  yourself.  He  will  not  write  until  he  is  able  to 
re-establish  himself  in  your  thoughts." 

But  would  Tony  succeed  ?  Could  he  succeed  ?  The 
questions  forced  themselves  into  her  mind  even  while 
she  was  speaking,  and  she  carried  them  back  to  her 

84 


THE   TRUANTS 

room.  The  chances  were  all  against  him.  Even  if 
he  retrieved  his  failure,  it  would  be  a  long  time  before 
that  result  was  reached — too  long,  perhaps,  when  his 
wife  was  Millicent,  and  such  creatures  as  Lionel  Gallon 
walked  about  the  world.  And  he  might  never  suc- 
ceed at  all,  he  was  so  badly  handicapped. 

Pamela  was  sorely  tempted  to  leave  the  entangle- 
ment alone  to  unravel  itself.  There  was  something 
which  she  could  do.  She  was  too  honest  to  close  her 
eyes  to  that.  But  her  own  history  rose  up  against 
her  and  shook  a  warning  finger.  It  had  a  message  to 
her  ears  never  so  loudly  repeated  as  on  this  night. 
"Don't  move  a  step.  Look  on!  Look  on!"  She 
knew  herself  well.  She  was  by  nature  a  partisan. 
Let  her  take  this  trouble  in  hand  and  strive  to  set  it 
right,  her  whole  heart  would  soon  be  set  upon  success. 
She  was  fond  of  Millicent  already;  she  would  become 
fonder  still  in  the  effort  to  save  her.  She  liked  Tony 
very  much.  The  thought  of  him  stoutly  persevering, 
clinging  to  his  one  ambition  to  keep  his  married  life  a 
bright  and  real  thing  in  spite  of  want  and  poverty — 
and  even  his  wife's  contempt — appealed  to  her  with  a 
poignant  strength.  But  she  might  fail.  She  had 
eaten  of  failure  once,  and,  after  all  these  years,  the 
taste  of  it  was  still  most  bitter  in  her  mouth. 

She  fought  her  battle  out  over  her  dying  fire,  and 
at  the  end  two  thoughts  stood  out  clearly  in  her  mind. 
She  had  given  her  promise  to  Tony  to  be  a  good  friend 
to  his  wife,  and  there  was  one  thing  which  she  could 
do  in  fulfilment  of  her  promise. 

She  walked  over  to  her  window  and  flung  it  open. 
She  was  of  the  women  who  look  for  signs;  no  story 
quite  appealed  to  her  like  the  story  of  Gideon's  Fleece. 
She  looked  for  a  sign  now  quite  seriouslv.     If  a  thaw 

85 


THE   TRUANTS 

had  set  in,  why,  the  world  was  going  a  Uttle  better 
with  her,  and  perhaps  she  might  succeed.  But  the 
earth  was  iron-bound,  and  in  the  still  night  she  could 
hear  a  dry  twig  here  and  there  snapping  in  the  frost. 
No,  the  world  was  not  going  well.  She  decided  to 
wait  until  things  improved. 

But  next  day  matters  were  worse.  For  one  thing, 
John  Mudge  went  away,  and  he  was  the  only  person 
in  the  house  who  interested  her  at  all.  Furthermore, 
Lionel  Gallon  stayed,  and  he  announced  some  news. 

"  I  have  been  chosen  to  stand  for  Parliament  at  the 
next  election,"  he  said;  and  he  named  an  important 
constituency.  Pamela  noticed  the  look  of  gratification, 
almost  of  pride,  which  shone  at  once  on  Millie's  face, 
and  her  heart  sank.  She  interpreted  Millie's  thought, 
and  accurately.  Here  was  a  successful  man,  a  man 
who  had  got  on  without  opportunities  or  means,  simply 
by  his  own  abilities;  and  there,  far  away  in  New  York, 
was  her  failure  of  a  husband.  Moreover,  Gallon  and 
MilHcent  were  much  together;  they  had  even  small 
secrets,  to  which  in  conversation  they  referred.  The 
world  was  not  going  well  with  Pamela,  and  she  waited 
for  the  fleece  to  be  wet  with  dew. 

After  four  days,  however,  the  frost  showed  signs  of 
breaking.  A  thaw  actually  set  in  that  evening,  and 
on  the  next  morning  two  pieces  of  good  news  arrived. 
In  the  first  place,  Pamela  received  a  letter  from  Alan 
Warrisden.  There  was  nothing  of  importance  in  it, 
but  it  gave  her  his  actual  address.  In  the  second, 
Millie  told  Frances  Millingham  that  she  had  received 
news  that  Sir  John  Stretton  was  really  failing,  and  al- 
though there  was  no  immediate  danger,  she  must  hold 
herself  in  readiness  to  return  to  town.  This  to  Pamela 
was  really  the  best  news  of  all.     This  morning,  at  all 

86 


THE  TRUANTS 

events,  Gideon's  Fleece  was  wet.  She  looked  out  some 
trains  in  the  railway-guide,  and  then  sent  a  telegram 
to  Warrisden  to  come  by  a  morning  train.  She  would 
meet  him  at  the  railway-station.  The  one  step  in  her 
power  she  was  thus  resolved  to  take. 


IX 

THE   NEW   ROAD 

ON  the  crest  of  that  hill  which  was  visible  from  the 
upper  windows  of  Whitewebs,  a  village  straggled 
for  a  mile;  and  all  day  in  the  cottages  the  looms  were 
heard.  The  somid  of  looms,  indeed,  was  always  as- 
sociated with  that  village  in  the  minds  of  Pamela  Mar- 
dale  and  Alan  Warrisden,  though  they  drove  along  its 
broad  street  but  once,  and  a  few  hours  included  all 
their  visit.  Those  few  hours,  however,  were  rich  with 
consequence.  For  Pamela  asked  for  help  that  day, 
and,  in  the  mere  asking,  gave,  as  women  must;  and 
she  neither  asked  nor  gave  in  ignorance  of  what  she 
did.  The  request  might  be  small,  the  gift  small,  too; 
but  it  set  her  and  her  friend  in  a  new  relation  each 
to  each,  it  linked  them  in  a  common  effort,  it  brought 
a  new  and  a  sweet  intimacy  into  both  their  lives.  So 
that  the  noise  of  a  loom  was  never  heard  by  them  in 
the  after-times  but  there  rose  before  their  eyes,  visible 
as  a  picture,  that  gray,  chill  day  of  February,  the  red- 
brick houses  crowding  on  the  broad  street  in  a  pict- 
uresque irregularity,  and  the  three  tall  poplars  toss- 
ing in  the  wind.  The  recollection  brought  always  a 
smile  of  tenderness  to  their  faces ;  and  in  their  thoughts 
they  had  for  the  village  a  strange  and  fanciful  name. 
It  was  just  a  little  Leicestershire  village  perched  upon 
a  hill,  the  village  of  looms,  the  village  of  the  three 
poplars.     But  they  called  it  Quetta. 

88 


THE   TRUANTS 

At  the  very  end  of  the  street,  and  exactly  opposite 
to  the  small  house  from  whose  garden  the  poplars 
rose,  there  stood  an  inn.  It  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
hill,  for  just  beyond  the  road  dipped  steeply  down 
between  high  hedges  of  brambles  and  elder-trees,  and, 
turning  at  the  bottom  of  the  incline,  wound  thence 
through  woods  and  level  meadows  towards  Leicester. 
It  was  the  old  coach  road,  and  the  great  paved  yard 
of  the  inn  and  the  long  line  of  disused  stables  had 
once  been  noisy  with  the  shouts  of  ostlers  and  the 
crack  of  whips.  Now  only  the  carrier's  cart  drove 
twice  a  week  down  the  steep  road  to  Leicester,  and  a 
faint  whistle  from  the  low-lying  land  and  a  trail  of 
smoke  showed  where  now  the  traffic  ran.  On  the 
platform  of  the  little  road-side  station,  three  miles  from 
the  village,  Pamela  met  Alan  Warrisden  on  the  morn- 
ing after  she  had  sent  off  her  telegram.  She  had  a 
trap  waiting  at  the  door,  and  as  they  mounted  into 
it  she  said: 

"I  rode  over  to  the  village  this  morning  and  hired 
this  dog-cart  at  the  inn.  I  am  not  expected  to  be 
back  at  Whitewebs  until  the  afternoon;  so  I  thought 
we  might  lunch  at  the  inn,  and  then  a  man  can  drive 
you  back  to  the  station,  while  I  ride  home  again." 

"It  was  bad  going  for  a  horse,  wasn't  it?"  said 
Warrisden. 

The  thaw  had  fairly  set  in;  the  roads,  still  hard  as 
cement,  ran  with  water,  and  were  most  slippery.  On 
each  side  patches  of  snow  hung  upon  the  banks  half 
melted,  and  the  air  was  raw. 

"Yes,  it  was  bad  going,"  Pamela  admitted.  "But  I 
could  not  wait.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should  see 
you  to-day." 

She  said  no  more  at  the  moment,  and  Warrisden  was 

89 


THE   TRUANTS 

content  to  sit  by  her  side  as  she  drove,  and  wait.  The 
road  ran  in  a  broad,  straight  Hne  over  the  sloping 
ground.  There  was  no  vehicle,  not  even  another  per- 
son, moving  along  it.  Warrisden  could  see  the  line  of 
houses  ahead,  huddled  against  the  sky,  the  spire  of  a 
church,  and  on  his  right  the  three  sentinel  poplars. 
He  was  to  see  them  all  that  afternoon. 

Pamela  drove  straight  to  the  inn,  where  she  had  al- 
ready ordered  luncheon ;  and  it  was  not  until  luncheon 
was  over  that  she  drew  up  her  chair  to  the  fire  and 
spoke. 

"Won't  you  smoke?"  she  said,  first  of  all.  "I  want 
you  to  listen  to  me." 

Warrisden  lit  a  pipe  and  listened. 

"It  is  right  that  I  should  be  very  frank  with  you," 
she  went  on,  "for  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  help  me." 

"You  need  me,  then?"  said  Warrisden.  There  was 
a  leap  in  his  voice  which  brought  the  color  to  her 
cheeks. 

"Very  much,"  she  said;  and,  with  a  smile,  she 
asked:  "Are  you  glad?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  simply. 

"Yet  the  help  may  be  difficult  for  you  to  give.  It 
may  occupy  a  long  time,  besides.  I  am  not  asking 
you  for  a  mere  hour  or  a  day." 

The  warning  only  brought  a  smile  to  Warrisden 's 
face. 

"I  don't  think  you  understand,"  he  said,  "how 
much  one  wants  to  be  needed  by  those  one  needs." 

Indeed,  even  when  that  simple  truth  was  spoken 
to  her,  it  took  Pamela  a  little  while  to  weigh  it  in  her 
thoughts  and  give  it  credence.  She  had  travelled  a 
long  distance  during  these  last  years  down  her  solitary 
road.     She  began  to  understand  that  now.     To  need 

90 


THE   TRUANTS 

— actually  to  need  people,  to  feel  a  joy  in  being  needed 
— here  were  emotions,  familiar  to  most,  and  no  doubt 
at  one  time  familiar  to  her,  which  were,  nevertheless, 
now  very  new  and  strange.  At  present  she  only 
needed.  Would  a  time  come  when  she  would  go 
further  still?  When  she  would  feel  a  joy  in  being 
needed?     The  question  flashed  across  her  mind. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "no  doubt  that  is  true.  But 
none  the  less  there  must  be  no  misunderstanding  be- 
tween you  and  me.  I  speak  of  myself,  although  it  is 
not  for  myself  that  I  need  your  help;  but  I  am  not 
blind.  I  know  it  will  be  for  my  sake  that  you  give  it, 
and  I  do  not  want  you  to  give  it  in  any  ignorance  of 
me,  or,  perhaps" — and  she  glanced  at  him  almost 
shyly — "or,  perhaps,  expecting  too  much." 

Warrisden  made  no  other  answer  than  to  lean  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  upon  Pamela's  face. 
She  was  going  to  explain  that  isolation  of  hers  which 
had  so  baffled  him.  He  would  not  for  worlds  have 
interrupted  her  lest  he  should  check  the  utterance  on 
her  lips.  He  saw  clearly  enough  that  she  was  taking 
a  great  step  for  her,  a  step,  too,  which  meant  much  to 
him.  The  actual  explanation  was  not  the  important 
thing.  That  she  should  confide  it  of  her  own  accord — 
there  was  the  real  and  valuable  sign.  As  she  began 
to  speak  again,  diffidence  was  even  audible  in  her  voice. 
She  almost  awaited  his  judgment. 

"I  must  tell  you  something  which  I  thought  never 
to  tell  to  any  one,"  she  said.  "  I  meant  to  carry  it  as 
my  secret  out  with  me  at  the  end  of  my  life.  I  have 
been  looking  on  all  these  last  years.  You  noticed  that ; 
you  thought  perhaps  I  was  just  obeying  my  nature. 
But  I  wasn't.  I  did  not  begin  life  looking  on.  I  be- 
gan it  as  eager,  as  expectant  of  what  life  could  give 

91 


THE   TRUANTS 

me  as  any  girl  that  was  ever  born.  And  I  had  just 
my  first  season,  that  was  all."  She  smiled  rather 
wistfully  as  her  thoughts  went  back  to  it.  "I  en- 
joyed my  first  season.  I  had  hardly  ever  been  in 
London  before.  I  was  eighteen;  and  everybody  was 
very  nice  to  me.  At  the  end  of  July  I  went  to  stay 
for  a  month  with  some  friends  of  mine  on  the  coast 
of  Devonshire,  and — some  one  else  stayed  there,  too. 
His  name  does  not  matter.  I  had  met  him  during 
the  season  a  good  deal,  but  until  he  came  down  to 
Devonshire  I  had  not  thought  of  him  more  than  as 
a  friend.  He  was  a  little  older  than  myself,  not  very 
much,  and  just  as  poor.  He  had  no  prospects,  and 
his  profession  was  diplomacy.  ...  So  that  there  was 
no  possibility  from  the  first.  He  meant  never  to  say 
anything;  but  there  came  an  hour,  and  the  truth  was 
out  between  us." 

She  stopped  and  gazed  into  the  fire.  The  waters  of 
the  Channel  ran  in  sunlit  ripples  before  her  eyes;  the 
red  rocks  of  Bigbury  Bay  curved  warmly  out  on  her 
right  and  her  left;  farther  away  the  towering  head- 
lands loomed  misty  in  the  hot,  still  August  air.  A 
white  yacht,  her  sails  hardly  drawing,  moved  slowly 
westward ;  the  black  smoke  of  a  steamer  stained  the 
sky  far  out;  and  on  the  beach  there  were  just  two 
figures  visible — herself  and  the  man  who  had  not 
meant  to  speak. 

"We  parted  at  once,"  she  went  on;  and  it  seemed 
there  was  the  whole  story  told.  But  Pamela  had  not 
told  it  all,  and  never  did;  for  her  mother  had  played  a 
part  in  its  unfolding.  It  was  Mrs.  Mardale's  ambi- 
tion that  her  daughter  should  make  a  great  marriage; 
it  was  her  daughter's  misfortune  that  she  knew  little 
of  her  daughter's  character.     Mrs.   Mardale  had  re- 

92 


THE   TRUANTS 

marked  the  growing  friendship  between  Pamela  and 
the  man,  she  had  realized  that  marriage  was  quite 
impossible,  and  she  had  thought,  with  her  short- 
sighted ingenuity,  that  if  Pamela  fell  in  love  and  found 
love  to  be  a  thing  of  fruitless  trouble,  she  would  come 
the  sooner  to  take  a  sensible  view  of  the  world,  and 
marry  where  marriage  was  to  her  worldly  advantage. 
She  thus  had  encouraged  the  couple  to  a  greater  friend- 
liness, throwing  them  together  when  she  could  have 
hindered  their  companionship;  she  had  even  urged 
Pamela  to  accept  that  invitation  to  Devonshire,  know- 
ing who  would  be  the  other  guests.  She  was  disap- 
pointed afterwards  when  Pamela  did  not  take  the 
sensible  view;  but  she  did  not  blame  herself  at  all. 
For  she  knew  nothing  of  the  suffering  which  her  plan 
had  brought  about.  Pamela  had  kept  her  secret. 
Even  the  months  of  ill-health  which  followed  upon  that 
first  season  had  not  opened  the  mother's  eyes,  and 
certainly  she  never  suspected  the  weary  nights  of 
sleeplessness  and  aching  misery  which  Pamela  endured. 
Some  hint  of  the  pain  of  that  bad  past  time,  however, 
Pamela  now  gave  to  Warrisden. 

"I  stayed  as  much  at  home  in  Leicestershire  as  pos- 
sible," she  said.  "You  see,  there  were  my  horses 
there;  but  even  with  them  I  was  very  lonely.  The 
time  was  long  in  passing,  and  it  wasn't  pleasant  to 
think  that  there  would  be  so  much  of  it  yet,  before 
it  passed  altogether.  I  went  up  to  London  for  the 
season  each  year,  and  I  went  out  a  great  deal.  It 
helped  me  to  keep  from  thinking." 

The  very  simplicity  with  which  she  spoke  gave  an 
intensity  to  her  words.  There  was  no  affectation  in 
Pamela  Mardale.  Warrisden  was  able  to  fill  out  her 
hints,  to  understand  her  distress. 

93 


THE   TRUANTS 

"All  this  is  a  great  surprise  to  me,"  he  said.  "I 
have  thought  of  you  always  as  one  who  had  never 
known  either  great  troubles  or  great  joys.  I  have 
hoped  that  some  day  you  would  wake,  that  I  should 
find  you  looking  out  on  the  world  with  the  eagerness 
of  youth.  But  I  believed  eagerness  would  be  a  new 
thing  to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat.  The  firelight  was 
bright  upon  her  face,  and  touched  her  hair  with  light; 
her  dark  eyes  shone;  and  his  thought  was  that  which 
the  school-master  at  Roquebrune  had  once  sadly  pon- 
dered. It  seemed  needlessly  cruel,  needlessly  wanton, 
that  a  girl  so  equipped  for  happiness  should,  in  her 
very  first  season,  when  the  world  was  opening  like  a 
fairy-land,  have  been  blindly  struck  down.  There 
were  so  many  others  who  would  have  felt  the  blow 
less  poignantly.     She  might  surely  have  been  spared. 

"You  can  guess,  now,"  said  Pamela,  "why  I  have 
so  persistently  looked  on.  I  determined  that  I  would 
never  go  through  such  distress  again.  I  felt  that  I 
would  not  dare  to  face  it  again."  She  suddenly  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands.  "  I  don't  think  I  could," 
she  cried,  in  a  low,  piteous  voice.  "  I  don't  know  what 
I  would  do,"  as  though  once  more  the  misery  of  that 
time  were  closing  upon  her,  so  vivid  were  her  recol- 
lections. 

And  once  more  Warrisden  felt,  as  he  watched  her, 
the  shock  of  a  surprise.  He  had  thought  her  too  se- 
date, too  womanly  for  her  years,  and  here  she  sat 
shrinking  in  a  positive  terror,  like  any  child,  from  the 
imagined  recurrence  of  her  years  of  trouble.  Warris- 
den was  moved  as  he  had  seldom  been.  But  he  sat 
quite  still,  saying  no  word;  and  in  a  little  while  she 
took  her  hands  from  her  face  and  went  on; 

94 


THE   TRUANTS 

"My  life  was  over,  you  see,  at  the  very  beginning, 
and  I  was  resolved  it  should  be  over.  For  the  future 
I  would  get  interested  only  in  trifling,  unimportant 
things ;  no  one  should  ever  be  more  to  me  than  a  friend 
whom  I  could  relinquish;  I  would  merely  look  on.  I 
should  grow  narrow,  no  doubt,  and  selfish."  And,  as 
Warrisden  started,  a  smile  came  onto  her  face.  "  Yes, 
you  have  been  thinking  that,  too,  and  you  were  right. 
But  I  didn't  mind.  I  meant  to  take  no  risks.  Nothing 
serious  should  ever  come  near  me.  If  I  saw  it  coming, 
I  would  push  it  away;  and  I  have  pushed  it  away." 

"Until  to-day,  when  you  need  my  help,"  Warris- 
den interrupted. 

"Yes,  until  to-day,"  Pamela  repeated,  softly. 

Warrisden  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  stood 
with  his  back  towards  her.  The  three  tall  poplars  stood 
leafless  up  in  front  of  him;  the  sky  was  heavy  with 
gray  clouds ;  the  wind  was  roaring  about  the  chimneys ; 
and  the  roads  ran  with  water.  It  was  as  cheerless  a 
day  as  February  can  produce,  but  to  Warrisden  it  had 
something  of  a  summer  brightness.  The  change  for 
which  he  had  hoped  so  long  in  vain  had  actually  come 
to  pass. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked,  turning 
again  to  the  room. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  MilHe  Stretton's  husband  ?"  she 
replied;  "and,  at  all  costs,  to  bring  him  home  again." 

"Millie  Stretton's  husband?"  he  repeated,  in  per- 
plexity. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  remember  the  couple  who  stepped 
out  of  the  dark  house  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  dared 
not  whistle  for  a  hansom — the  truants?" 

Warrisden  was  startled.  "Those  two!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Well,  that's  strange.     On  the  very  night  when  we 

95 


THE   TRUANTS 

saw  them,  you  were  saying  that  there  was  no  road 
for  you,  no  new  road  from  Quetta  to  Seistan.  I  was 
puzzling  my  brains,  too,  as  to  how  in  the  world  you 
were  to  be  roused  out  of  your  detachment ;  and  there 
were  the  means  visible  all  the  time,  perhaps — who 
knows? — ordained."  He  sat  down  again  in  his  chair. 
"Where  shall  I  look  for  Mr.  Stretton?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  He  went  away  to  New  York,  six 
months  ago,  to  make  a  home  for  Millie  and  himself. 
He  did  not  succeed,  and  he  has  disappeared." 

"Disappeared?"  cried  Warrisden. 

"Oh,  but  of  his  own  accord,"  said  Pamela.  "I 
can't  tell  you  why;  it  wouldn't  be  fair.  I  have  no 
right  to  tell  you.  But  he  must  be  found,  and  he  must 
be  brought  back.  Again  I  can't  tell  you  why;  but  it 
is  most  urgent." 

"Is  there  any  clew  to  help  us?"  Warrisden  asked. 
"Had  he  friends  in  New  York?" 

"No;  but  he  has  a  friend  in  England,"  said  Pamela, 
"and  I  think  it's  just  possible  that  the  friend  may 
know  where  he  is  to  be  found,  for  it  was  upon  his  advice 
that  Mr.  Stretton  went  to  New  York." 

"Tell  me  his  name." 

"Mr.  Chase,"  Pamela  replied.  "He  is  head  of  a 
mission  in  Stepney  Green.  Tony  Stretton  told  me  of 
him  one  morning  in  Hyde  Park,  just  before  he  went 
away.  He  seemed  to  rely  very  much  upon  his  judg- 
ment." 

Warrisden  wrote  the  name  down  in  his  pocket-book. 

"Will  he  tell  me,  do  you  think,  where  Stretton  is, 
even  if  he  knows  ?  You  say  Stretton  has  disappeared 
of  his  own  accord." 

"I  have  thought  of  that  difficulty,"  Pamela  an- 
swered.    "There  is  an  argument  which  vou  can  use. 

96 


THE   TRUANTS 

Sir  John  Stretton,  Tony's  father,  is  ill,  and  in  all  prob- 
ability dying." 

"I  see.  I  can  use  the  same  argument  to  Stretton 
himself,  I  suppose,  when  I  find  him?" 

"I  can  give  you  no  other,"  said  Pamela;  "but  you 
can  add  to  it.  Mr.  Stretton  will  tell  you  that  his 
father  does  not  care  whether  he  comes  back  in  time  or 
not.  He  is  sure  to  say  that.  But  you  can  answer 
that  every  night  since  he  went  away  the  candles  have 
been  lit  in  his  dressing-room,  and  his  clothes  laid  out 
by  his  father's  orders,  on  the  chance  that  some  even- 
ing he  might  walk  in  at  the  door." 

That  Sir  John  Stretton's  illness  was  merely  the  pre- 
text for  Tony's  return  both  understood.  The  real 
reason  why  he  must  come  home  Pamela  did  not  tell. 
To  her  thinking  Millie  was  not  yet  so  deeply  entangled 
with  Lionel  Gallon  but  that  Tony's  home-coming  might 
set  the  tangle  right.  A  few  weeks  of  companionship, 
and  surely  he  would  resume  his  due  place  in  his  wife's 
thoughts.  Pamela,  besides,  was  loyal  to  her  sex.  She 
had  promised  to  safeguard  Millicent;  she  was  in  no 
mind  to  betray  her. 

"But  bring  him  back,"  she  cried,  with  a  real  pas- 
sion. "So  much  depends  on  his  return,  for  Milhe,  for 
him,  and  for  me,  too.  Yes,  for  me!  If  you  fail, 
it  is  I  who  fail;  and  I  don't  want  failure.  Save  me 
from  it!" 

"I'll  try,"  Warrisden  answered,  simply,  and  Pamela 
was  satisfied. 

Much -depended,  for  Warrisden,  too,  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  his  adventure.  If  he  failed,  Pamela  would  re- 
tire again  behind  her  barrier;  she  would  again  resume 
the  passive,  indifferent  attitude  of  the  very  old;  she 
would  merely  look  on  as  before  and  wait  for  things  to 
7  97 


THE   TRUANTS 

cease.  If,  however,  he  succeeded,  she  would  be  en- 
couraged to  move  forward  still;  the  common  sym- 
pathies would  have  her  in  their  grasp  again ;  she  might 
even  pass  that  turnpike  gate  of  friendship,  and  go 
boldly  down  the  appointed  road  of  life.  Thus  success 
meant  much  for  him.  The  fortunes  of  the  four  peo- 
ple— Millicent,  Tony,  Pamela,  and  Warrisden — were 
knotted  together  at  this  one  point. 

"Indeed,  I'll  try,"  he  repeated. 

Pamela's  horse  was  brought  round  to  the  inn  door. 
The  dusk  was  coming  on. 

"Which  way  do  you  go?"  asked  Warrisden. 

"Down  the  hill." 

"  I  will  walk  to  the  bottom  with  you.  The  road  will 
be  dangerous." 

They  went  slowly  down  between  the  high  elder 
hedges,  Pamela  seated  on  her  horse,  Warrisden  walk- 
ing by  her  side.  The  wide  level  lowlands  opened  out 
beneath  them — fields  of  brown  and  green,  black  woods 
with  swinging  boughs,  and  the  broad  high-road  with 
its  white  wood  rails.  A  thin  mist  swirled  across  the 
face  of  the  country  in  the  wind,  so  that  its  every  feat- 
ure was  softened  and  magnified.  It  loomed  dim  and 
strangely  distant,  with  a  glamour  upon  it  like  a  place 
of  old  romance.  To  Pamela  and  Warrisden,  as  the 
mists  wove  and  unwove  above  it,  it  had  a  look  of 
dream-land. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  incline,  and  Pamela 
stopped  her  horse. 

"This  is  my  way,"  said  she,  pointing  along  the  high- 
way with  her  whip. 

"Yes,"  answered  Warrisden.  The  road  ran  straight 
for  some  distance,  then  crossed  a  wooden  bridge  and 
curved  out  of  sight  round  the  edge  of  a  clump  of  trees. 

98 


THE  TRUANTS 

"The  new  road,"  he  said,  softly.  "The  new  road 
from  Quetta  to  Seistan!" 

Pamela  smiled. 

"This  is  Quetta,"  said  she. 

Warrisden  laid  his  hand  upon  her  horse's  neck  and 
looked  suddenly  up  into  her  face. 

"Where  will  be  Seistan?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

Pamela  returned  the  look  frankly.  There  came  a 
softness  into  her  dark  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  let 
her  hand  rest  lightly  upon  his  sleeve  and  did  not  speak. 
She  herself  was  wondering  how  far  she  was  to  travel 
upon  this  new  road. 

"I  cannot  tell,"  she  said,  very  gently;  "nor,  my 
friend,  can  you.  Only" — and  her  voice  took  on  a 
lighter  and  a  whimsical  tone — "only  I  start  alone  on 
my  new  road." 

And  she  went  forward  into  the  level  country.  War- 
risden climbed  the  hill  again,  and  turned  when  he  had 
reached  the  top;  but  Pamela  was  out  of  sight.  The 
dusk  and  the  mists  had  enclosed  her. 


X 

MR.   CHASE 

THE  night  had  come  when  Warrisden  stepped  from 
the  platform  of  the  station  into  the  train.  Pame- 
la was  by  this  time  back  at  Whitewebs;  he  himself 
was  travelling  to  London;  their  day  was  over.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window.  Somewhere,  three  miles 
away,  the  village  of  the  three  poplars  crowned  the 
hill,  but  a  thick  wall  of  darkness  and  fog  hid  it  from 
his  eyes.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  Pamela  and  he  had 
met  that  day  only  in  thought  at  some  village  which 
existed  only  in  a  dream.  The  train,  however,  rattled 
upon  its  way.  Gradually  he  became  conscious  of  a 
familiar  exhilaration.  The  day  had  been  real.  Not 
merely  had  it  signalled  the  change  in  Pamela,  for 
which  for  so  long  he  had  wished,  not  merely  had  it 
borne  a  blossom  of  promise  for  himself,  but  something 
was  to  be  done  immediately,  and  the  thing  to  be  done 
was  of  all  things  that  which  most  chimed  with  his 
own  desires.  He  was  to  take  the  road  again,  and  the 
craving  for  the  road  was  seldom  stilled  for  long  within 
his  heart.  He  heard  its  call  sung  like  a  song  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  wheels.  The  very  uncertainty  of  its 
direction  tantalized  his  thoughts. 

Warrisden  lodged  upon  the  Embankment,  and  his 
rooms  overlooked  the  Thames.  The  mist  lay  heavy 
upon  London,  and  all  that  night  the  steamboats 
hooted  as  they  passed  from  bridge  to  bridge.     Warris- 

lOO 


THE   TRUANTS 

den  lay  long  awake  listening  to  them;  each  blast  had 
its  message  for  him,  each  was  like  the  greeting  of  a 
friend;  each  one  summoned  him,  and  to  each  he  an- 
swered with  a  rising  joy,  "I  shall  follow,  I  shall  fol- 
low." The  boats  passed  down  to  the  sea  through 
the  night  mist.  Many  a  time  he  had  heard  them 
before,  picturing  the  dark  deck  and  the  side-lights, 
red  and  green,  and  the  yellow  light  upon  the  mast, 
and  the  man  silent  at  the  wheel,  with  the  light 
from  the  binnacle  striking  up  upon  the  lines  of 
his  face.  They  were  little  river  or  coasting  boats 
for  the  most  part,  but  he  had  never  failed  to  be 
stirred  by  the  long-drawn  melancholy  of  their  whis- 
tles. They  talked  of  distant  lands  and  an  alien 
foliage. 

He  spent  the  following  morning  and  the  afternoon 
in  the  arrangement  of  his  affairs,  and  in  the  evening 
drove  down  to  the  mission-house.  It  stood  in  a  dull 
by -street  close  to  Stepney  Green,  a  rambling  building 
with  five  rooms  upon  the  ground-floor  panelled  with 
varnished  deal  and  furnished  with  forms  and  rough 
tables,  and,  on  the  floor  above,  a  big  bilHard -room, 
a  bagatelle -room,  and  a  carpenter's  workshop.  Mr. 
Chase  was  superintending  a  boxing-class  in  one  of  the 
lower  rooms,  and  Warrisden,  when  he  was  led  up  to 
him,  received  a  shock  of  surprise.  He  had  never  seen 
a  man  to  the  outward  eye  so  unfitted  for  his  work. 
He  had  expected  a  strong,  burly  person,  cheery  of 
manner  and  confident  of  voice;  he  saw,  however,  a 
tall  young  man  with  a  long,  pale  face  and  a  fragile 
body.  Mr.  Chase  was  clothed  in  a  clerical  frock-coat 
of  unusual  length,  he  wore  bands  of  an  irreproach- 
able whiteness,  and  his  hands  were  fine  and  delicate 
as  a  woman's.     He  seemed,  indeed,  the  typical  High 

lOI 


THE   TRUANTS 

Church  curate  fresh  that  very  instant  from  the  tea- 
cups of  a  drawing-room. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the  ex-army- 
sergeant,  who  had  brought  forward  Warrisden.  He 
handed  Warrisden's  card  to  Chase,  who  turned  about 
and  showed  Warrisden  his  full  face.  Surprise  had 
been  Warrisden's  first  sentiment,  but  it  gave  place  in 
an  instant  to  distaste.  The  face  which  he  saw  was 
not  ugly,  but  he  disliked  it.  It  almost  repelled  him. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  eyes  at  all ;  they  were  veiled 
and  sunken;  and  the  features  repelled  by  reason  of  a 
queer  antagonism.  Mr.  Chase  had  the  high,  narrow 
forehead  of  an  ascetic,  the  loose  mouth  of  a  sensualist, 
and  a  thin  crop  of  pale  and  almost  colorless  hair. 
Warrisden  wondered  why  any  should  come  to  this 
man  for  advice,  most  of  all  a  Tony  Stretton.  What 
could  they  have  in  common,  the  simple,  good-humored, 
unintellectual  subaltern  of  the  Coldstream  and  this 
clerical  exquisite?     The  problem  was  perplexing. 

"You  wish  to  see  me?"  asked  Chase. 

"If  you  please." 

"Now?     As  you  see,  T  am  busy." 

"  I  can  wait." 

"Thank  you.  The  mission  closes  at  eleven.  If  you 
can  wait  till  then,  you  might  come  home  with  me  and 
we  could  talk  in  comfort." 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  For  two  hours  Warrisden  fol- 
lowed Chase  about  the  mission,  and  with  each  half- 
hour  his  interest  increased.  However  irreconcilable 
with  his  surroundings  Chase  might  appear  to  be, 
neither  he  nor  any  of  the  members  of  the  mission  were 
aware  of  it.  He  was  at  ease  alike  with  the  boys  and 
the  men;  and  the  boys  and  the  men  were  at  ease  with 
him.     Moreover,   he    was   absolute   master,    although 

I02 


THE  TRUANTS 

there  were  rough  men  enough  among  his  subjects. 
The  fiercest  boxing-contest  was  stopped  in  a  second 
by  a  motion  of  that  dehcate  hand. 

"I  used  to  have  a  httle  trouble,"  he  said  to  Warris- 
den,  "before  I  had  those  wire  frames  fixed  over  the 
gas-jets.  You  see  they  cover  the  gas-taps.  Before 
that  was  done,  if  there  was  any  trouble,  the  first  thing 
which  happened  was  that  the  room  was  in  darkness. 
It  took  some  time  to  restore  order";  and  he  passed 
on  to  the  swimming-bath. 

Mr.  Chase  was  certainly  indefatigable.  Now  he  was 
giving  a  lesson  in  wood-carving  to  a  boy,  now  he  was 
arranging  for  an  apprenticeship  with  another  in  the 
carpenter's  shop.  Finally  he  led  the  way  into  the 
great  billiard-room  where  only  the  older  men  were 
allowed. 

"It  is  here  that  Stretton  used  to  keep  order?"  said 
Warrisden,  and  Chase  at  once  turned  quickly  towards 
him. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  slowly,  in  a  voice  of  comprehension. 
"I  was  wondering  what  brought  you  here.  Yes,  this 
was  the  room." 

Chase  moved  carelessly  away  and  spoke  to  some  of 
the  men  about  the  tables.  But  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  he  was  on  his  guard.  More  than  once  his 
eyes  turned  curiously  and  furtively  towards  Warris- 
den. His  face  grew  stubborn  and  wore  a  look  of 
weariness.  Warrisden  began  to  fear  lest  he  should 
get  no  answer  to  the  question  he  had  to  put.  No  ap- 
peal would  be  of  any  use — of  that  he  felt  sure.  His 
argument  must  serve — and  would  it  serve? 

Chase,  at  all  events,  made  no  attempt  to  avoid  the 
interview.  As  the  hands  of  the  clock  marked  eleven 
and  the  rooms  emptied,  he  came  at  once  to  Warrisden. 

103 


THE   TRUANTS 

"We  can  go  now,"  he  said,  and  unlocking  a  drawer, 
to  Warrisden's  perplexity,  he  filled  his  pockets  with 
racket -balls.  The  motive  for  that  proceeding  became 
apparent  as  they  walked  to  the  house  where  Chase 
lodged.  Their  way  led  through  alleys,  and  as  they 
walked  the  children  clustered  about  them,  and  Chase's 
pockets  were  emptied. 

"We  keep  this  house  because  men  from  the  univer- 
sities come  down  and  put  in  a  week  now  and  then  at 
the  mission.     My  rooms  are  up-stairs." 

Chase's  sitting-room  was  in  the  strangest  contrast 
to  the  bareness  of  the  mission  and  the  squalor  of  the 
streets.  It  was  furnished  with  luxury,  but  the  lux- 
ury was  that  of  a  man  of  taste  and  knowledge.  There 
was  hardly  a  piece  of  furniture  which  had  not  an  in- 
teresting history;  the  engravings  and  the  brass  or- 
naments upon  the  walls  had  been  picked  up  here 
and  there  in  Italy.  A  bright  fire  blazed  upon  the 
hearth. 

"What  will  you  drink?"  Chase  asked,  and  brought 
from  a  cupboard  bottle  after  bottle  of  liqueurs.  It 
seemed  to  Warrisden  that  the  procession  of  bottles 
would  never  end;  some  held  liqueurs  of  which  he  had 
never  even  heard  the  name;  but  concerning  all  of 
them  Mr.  Chase  discoursed  with  great  knowledge  and 
infinite  appreciation. 

"I  can  recommend  this,"  he  said,  tentatively,  as 
he  took  up  one  fat,  round  bottle  and  held  it  up  to  the 
light.  "  It  is  difficult,  perhaps,  to  say  definitely  which 
is  the  best,  but — yes,  I  can  recommend  this." 

"Can't  I  have  a  whiskey-and-soda?"  asked  Warris- 
den, plaintively. 

Mr.  Chase  looked  at  his  companion  with  a  stare. 

"Of   course   you   can,"   he   replied;   but   his   voice 

104 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  one  of  disappointment,  and  with  an  almost  im- 
perceptible shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  fetched  a  Tan- 
talus and  a  siphon  of  seltzer. 

"Help  yourself,"  he  said,  and  lighting  a  gold-tipped 
cigarette  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  began  to  talk.     And 
so  Warrisden  came  at  last  to  understand  how  Tony 
Stretton    had    gained    his    great    faith   in    Mr.    Chase. 
Chase  was  a  talker  of  a  rare  quality.     He  sat  stooping 
over  the  fire  with  his  thin   hands  outspread  to  the 
blaze,  and  for  half  an  hour  Warrisden  was  enchained. 
All  that  had  repelled  him  in  the  man,  all  that  had 
aroused   his   curiosity,   was   soon   lost   to   sight.     He 
yielded   himself  up   as  if  to  some  magician.     Chase 
talked  not  at  all  of  his  work  or  of  the  many  strange 
incidents  which  he  must  needs  have  witnessed  in  its 
discharge.     He   spoke   of   other   climates   and   bright 
towns  with  a  scholarship  which  had  nothing  of  ped- 
antry,  and   an   observation   human   as   it   was   keen. 
Chase  with  the  help  of  his  Livy  had  traced  Hannibal's 
road  across  the  Alps,  and  had  followed  it  on  foot;  he 
spoke   of   another   march    across   snow-mountains   of 
which  Warrisden  had  never  till  this  moment  heard — 
the  hundred  days  of  a  dead  Sultan  of  Morocco  on  the 
passes   of  the  Atlas,  during  which  he  led  his  forces 
back  from  Tafilet  to  Rabat.     Chase  knew  nothing  of 
this  retreat  but  what  he  had  read.     Yet  he  made  it 
real  to  Warrisden,  so  vividly  did  his  imagination  fill 
up  the  outlines  of  the  written  history.     He  knew  his 
Paris,  his  Constantinople.     He  had  bathed  from  the 
Lido  and  dreamed  on  the  Grand  Canal.     He  spoke  of 
the  peeling  frescos  in  the  villa  of  the  Countess  Guicci- 
oli  above  Leghorn,  of  the  outlook  from  the  terrace 
over  the  vines  and  the  olive-trees  to  the  sea  where 
Shelley  was  drowned;  and  where  Byron's  brig  used  to 


THE   TRUANTS 

round  into  the  wind,  and  with  its  sails  flapping  drop 
anchor  under  the  hill.  For  half  an  hour  Warrisden 
wandered  through  Europe  in  the  pleasantest  compan- 
ionship, and  then  Chase  stopped  abruptly  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair. 

"I  was  forgetting,"  he  said,  "that  you  had  come 
upon  a  particular  errand.  It  sometimes  happens  that 
I  see  no  one  outside  the  mission  people  for  a  good  while, 
and  during  those  periods,  when  I  get  an  occasion,  I  am 
apt  to  talk  too  much.     What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  spirit  had  gone  from  his  voice,  his  face.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  a  man  tired  out.  Warrisden 
looked  at  the  liqueur  bottles  crowded  on  the  table, 
with  Chase's  conversation  still  fresh  in  his  mind.  Was 
Chase  a  man  at  war  with  himself,  he  wondered,  who 
was  living  a  life  for  which  he  had  no  taste,  that  he 
might  the  more  completely  escape  a  life  which  his 
conscience  disapproved  ?  Or  was  he  deliberately  both 
hedonist  and  Puritan,  giving  to  each  side  of  his  strange 
nature  in  turn  its  outlet  and  gratification? 

"You  have  something  to  say  to  me,"  Chase  con- 
tinued.    "I  know  quite  well  what  it  is  about." 

"Stretton,"  said  Warrisden. 

"Yes,  you  mentioned  him  in  the  billiard  -  room. 
Well?" 

Chase  was  not  looking  at  Warrisden.  He  sat  with 
his  eyes  half -closed,  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  his  finger-tips  joined  under  his  chin,  and  his 
head  thrown  back.  There  was  no  expression  upon  his 
face  but  one  of  weariness.  Would  he  answer?  Could 
he  answer?  Warrisden  was  in  doubt — indeed,  in  fear. 
He  led  up  to  his  question  warily. 

"It  was  you  who  recommended  Stretton  to  try 
horse-breeding  in  Kentucky." 

io6 


THE  TRUANTS 

"Yes,"  said  Chase,  and  he  added:  "After  he  had 
decided  of  his  own  accord  to  go  away." 

"He  failed." 

"Yes." 

"And  he  has  disappeared." 

Chase  opened  his  eyes  but  did  not  turn  them  to  his 
companion. 

"I  did  not  advise  his  disappearance,"  he  said. 
"That,  hke  his  departure,  was  his  own  doing." 

"  No  doubt,"  Warrisden  agreed.  "  But  it  is  thought 
that  you  might  have  heard  from  him  since  his  dis- 
appearance." 

Chase  nodded  his  head. 

"I  have." 

"It  is  thought  that  you  might  know  where  he  is 

now." 

"I  do,"  said  Mr.  Chase.  Warrisden  was  sensibly 
relieved.  One-half  of  his  fear  was  taken  from  him. 
Chase  knew,  at  all  events,  where  Stretton  was  to  be 
found.  Now  he  must  disclose  his  knowledge.  But 
before  he  could  put  a  question.  Chase  said,  lan- 
guidly : 

"You  say  'it  is  thought,'  Mr.  Warrisden.  By 
whom  is  it  thought?     By  his  wife?" 

"  No.     But  by  a  friend  of  hers  and  his." 

"Oh,"  said  Chase,  "by  Miss  Pamela  Mardale, then." 

Warrisden  started  forward. 

"You  know  her?"  he  asked. 

"No.  But  Stretton  mentioned  her  to  me  in  a  let- 
ter. She  has  sent  you  to  me  in  fulfilment  of  a  prom- 
ise.    I  understand." 

The  words  were  not  very  intelligible  to  Warrisden. 
He  knew  nothing  of  Pamela's  promise  to  Tony  Stret- 
ton.    But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  saw  that  Mr.  Chase 

107 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  giving  a  more  attentive  ear  to  what  he  said.  He 
betrayed  no  ignorance  of  the  promise. 

"I  am  sent  to  fetch  Stretton  home,"  he  said.  "I 
want  you  to  tell  me  where  he  is." 

Chase  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  gently. 

"It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  Stretton  should 
come  back,"  Warrisden  declared,  with  great  delibera- 
tion, and  with  no  less  deliberation  Chase  replied: 

"  In  Stretton 's  view  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that 
he  should  stay  away." 

"His  father's  dying." 

Chase  started  forward  in  his  chair  and  stared  at 
Warrisden  for  a  long  time. 

"Is  that  an  excuse?"  he  said,  at  length. 

It  was,  as  Warrisden  was  aware.  He  did  not  an- 
swer the  question. 

"It  is  the  truth,"  he  replied;  and  he  replied  truth- 
fully. 

Chase  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  once  or  twice 
across  the  room.  He  came  back  to  the  fire,  and,  lean- 
ing an  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  stared  into  the  coals. 
Warrisden  sat  very  still.  He  had  used  his  one  argu- 
ment; he  could  add  nothing  to  it;  he  could  only  wait 
for  the  answer  in  a  great  anxiety.  So  much  hung 
upon  that  answer  for  Stretton  and  his  wife,  for  Pamela, 
for  himself!  The  fortunes  of  all  four  were  knotted  to- 
gether.    At  last  the  answer  came. 

"I  promised  Tony  that  I  would  keep  his  secret," 
said  Chase.  "But  when  he  asked  for  the  promise  and 
when  I  gave  it,  the  possibility  of  his  father  dying  was 
not  in  either  his  mind  or  mine.  We  considered — in 
letters,  of  course — other  possibilities,  but  not  this  one. 
I  don't  think  I  have  the  right  to  remain  silent.    Even 

io8 


THE   TRUANTS 

in  the  face  of  this  possibiHty  I  should  have  kept  my 
promise,  I  think,  if  you  had  come  from  his  wife — for  I 
know  why  he  disappeared.  But  as  things  are,  I  will 
tell  you.  Tony  Stretton  is  in  the  North  Sea  on  a 
trawler." 

"In  the  North  Sea!"  exclaimed  Warrisden,  and  he 
smiled.  After  all,  the  steamboats  on  the  river  had 
last  night  called  to  him  with  a  particular  summons. 

"Yes,"  continued  Chase,  and  he  fetched  from  his 
writing-desk  a  letter  in  Tony's  hand.  "  He  came  back 
to  England  two  months  ago.  He  drifted  across  the 
country.  He  found  himself  at  Yarmouth  with  a  few 
shillings  in  his  pocket.  He  knew  something  of  the 
sea.  He  had  sailed  his  own  yacht  in  happier  times. 
He  was  in  great  trouble.  He  needed  time  to  think 
out  a  new  course  of  life.  He  hung  about  on  Gorleston 
pier  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  was  taken  on  by  a 
skipper  who  was  starting  out  short  of  hands.  He 
signed  for  eight  weeks,  and  he  wrote  to  me  the  day 
before  he  started.     That's  four  weeks  ago." 

"Can  I  reach  him?"  Warrisden  asked. 

"Yes.  The  boat's  the  Perseverance  and  belongs  to 
the  Blue  Fleet.  A  steam-cutter  goes  out  every  day 
from  Billingsgate  to  fetch  the  fish.  I  know  one  of  the 
owners.  His  son  comes  down  to  the  mission.  I  can 
get  you  a  passage.     When  can  you  start  ?" 

"At  any  time,"  replied  Warrisden.  "The  sooner 
the  better." 

"To-morrow,  then,"  said  Chase.  "Meet  me  at  the 
entrance  to  Bilhngsgate  Market  at  half-past  eleven. 
It  will  take  you  forty-eight  hours  with  ordinary  luck 
to  reach  the  Doggerbank.  Of  course  if  there's  a  fog 
in  the  Thames  the  time  will  be  longer.  And,  I  warn 
you,  the  living's  rough  on  a  fish-carrier." 

109 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  don't  mind  that,"  said  Warrisden,  with  a  smile. 
He  went  away  with  a  light  heart,  and  that  night  wrote 
a  letter  to  Pamela,  telling  her  of  his  interview  with 
Mr.  Chase.  The  new  road  seemed,  after  all,  likely  to 
prove  a  smooth  one.  As  he  wrote,  every  now  and 
then  a  steamboat  hooted  from  the  river,  and  the  rain 
pattered  upon  his  window.  He  flung  it  up  and  looked 
out.  There  was  no  fog  to-night,  only  the  rain  fell, 
and  fell  gently.  He  prayed  that  there  might  be  no 
fog  upon  the  Thames  to-morrow. 

Mr.  Chase,  too,  heard  the  rain  that  night.  He  sat 
in  his  arm-chair  listening  to  it,  with  a  decanter  at  his 
elbow  half-filled  with  a  liquid  like  brown  sherry.  At 
times  he  poured  a  Httle  into  his  glass  and  drank  it 
slowly,  crouching  over  his  fire.  Somewhere  in  the 
darkness  of  the  North  Sea,  Tony  Stretton  was  hidden. 
Very  likely  at  this  moment  he  was  standing  upon  the 
deck  of  his  trawler  with  his  hands  upon  the  spokes 
of  the  wheel  and  his  eyes  peering  forward  through  the 
rain,  keeping  his  long  night-watch  while  the  light  from 
the  binnacle  struck  upward  upon  the  lines  of  his  face. 
Mr.  Chase  sat  late  in  a  muse;  but  before  he  went  to 
bed  he  locked  the  decanter  and  the  glass  away  in  a 
private  cupboard  and  took  the  key  with  him  into  his 
bedroom. 


XI 

ON   THE   DOGGERBANK 

THE  City  of  Bristol  swung  out  of  the  huddle  of  boats 
off  BilHngsgate  wharf  at  one  o'clock  on  the  next 
afternoon.  Mr.  Chase,  who  stood  on  the  quay  among 
the  porters  and  white-jacketed  salesmen,  turned  away 
with  an  Episcopal  wave  of  the  hand.  Warrisden  leaned 
over  the  rail  of  the  steamer's  bridge,  between  the  cap- 
tain and  the  pilot,  and  shouted  a  reply.  The  City  of 
Bristol,  fish-cutter,  of  three  hundred  tons,  was  a  boat 
built  for  speed,  long  and  narrow,  setting  low  on  the 
water,  with  an  upstanding  forecastle  forward,  a  small 
saloon  in  the  stem,  and  a  tiny  cabin  for  the  captain 
under  the  bridge  on  deck.  She  sidled  out  into  the 
fairway,  and  went  forward  upon  her  slow,  intricate 
journey  to  the  sea.  Below  the  Tower  she  took  her 
place  in  the  long,  single  file  of  ships  winding  between 
the  mud- banks,  and  changed  it  as  occasion  served; 
now  she  edged  up  by  a  string  of  barges,  now  in  a  clear 
broad  space  she  made  a  spurt  and  took  the  lead  of  a 
barkentine,  which  swam  in  indolence  with  bare  masts 
behind  a  tug,  and  at  times  she  stopped  altogether, 
like  a  carriage  blocked  in  Piccadilly.  The  screw  thrash- 
ed the  water,  ceased,  and  struck  again  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  petulance  at  the  obstacles  which  barred  the 
boat's  way.  Warrisden,  too,  chafed  upon  the  bridge. 
A  question  pressed  continually  upon  his  mind — 
"Would  Stretton  return?"     He  had  discovered  where 

III 


THE   TRUANTS 

Stretton  was  to  be  found.  The  tall  gray  spire  of 
Stepney  Church  rose  from  behind  an  inlet  thick  with 
masts  upon  the  left ;  he  was  already  on  his  way  to  find 
him.  But  the  critical  moment  was  yet  to  come.  He 
had  still  to  use  his  arguments,  and  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing the  shipping  with  indifferent  eyes  the  arguments 
appeared  most  weak  and  unpersuasive.  Stretton 's 
father  was  dying,  it  was  true.  The  son's  return  was 
no  doubt  a  natural  obligation.  But  would  the  natural 
obligation  hold  when  the  father  was  unnatural  ? 
Those  months  in  New  York  had  revealed  one  quality 
in  Tony  Stretton,  at  all  events;  he  could  persist.  The 
very  name  of  the  trawler  in  which  he  was  at  work 
seemed  to  Warrisden  of  a  bad  augury  for  his  success 
— the  Perseverance ! 

Greenwich,  with  its  hill  of  grass,  slipped  behind  on 
the  right;  at  the  Albert  Docks,  a  huge  Peninsula  and 
Oriental  steamer,  deck  towering  above  deck,  swung 
into  the  line;  the  high  chimneys  of  the  cement -works 
on  the  Essex  Flats  began  to  stand  out  against  the  pale 
gray  sky,  each  one  crowned  with  white  smoke  like  a 
tuft  of  wool;  the  barges,  under  their  big  brown  sprit- 
sails,  now  tacked  this  way  and  that,  across  a  wider 
stream;  the  village  of  Greenhithe  and  the  white  port- 
holes of  the  Worcester  showed  upon  the  right. 

"Would  Stretton  return?"  The  question  revolved 
in  Warrisden 's  mind  as  the  propeller  revolved  in  the 
thick,  brown  water.  The  fortunes  of  four  people  hung 
upon  the  answer,  and  no  answer  could  be  given  until 
a  night  and  a  day  and  another  night  had  passed,  until 
he  saw  the  Blue  Fleet  tossing  far  away  upon  the 
Doggerbank.  Suppose  that  the  answer  were  "No!" 
He  imagmed  Pamela  sinking  back  into  lassitude,  nar- 
rowing to  that  selfishness  which  she  no  less  than  he 

112 


THE   TRUANTS 

foresaw,  looking  on  again  at  the  world's  show  with 
the  lack-lustre  indifference  of  the  very  old. 

At  Gravesend  the  City  of  Bristol  dropped  her  pilot, 
a  little,  white-bearded,  wizened  man,  who,  all  the  way 
down  the  river,  balancing  himself  upon  the  top-rail  of 
the  bridge  like  some  nautical  Blondin,  had  run  from 
side  to  side,  the  while  he  exchanged  greetings  with 
the  anchored  ships;  and  just  opposite  to  Tilbury  Fort, 
with  its  scanty  fringe  of  trees,  ran  alongside  of  a  hulk 
and  she  took  in  a  load  of  coal. 

"We'll  go  down  and  have  tea  while  they  are  loading 
her,"  said  the  captain. 

The  dusk  was  falling  when  Warrisden  came  again  on 
deck,  and  a  cold  wind  was  blowing  from  the  northwest. 
The  sharp  stem  of  the  boat  was  cutting  swiftly  through 
the  quiet  water;  the  lift  of  the  sea  under  her  forefoot 
gave  to  her  a  buoyancy  of  motion ;  she  seemed  to  have 
become  a  thing  alive.  The  propeller  cleft  the  surface 
regularly ;  there  was  no  longer  any  sound  of  petulance 
in  its  revolutions;  rather  there  was  a  throb  of  joy  as  it 
did  its  work  unhindered.  Throughout  the  ship  a 
steady  hum,  a  steady  vibration,  ran.  The  City  of 
Bristol  was  not  merely  a  thing  alive,  it  was  a  thing 
satisfied. 

Upon  Warrisden,  too,  there  descended  a  sense  of 
peace.  He  was  en  rapport  with  the  ship.  The  fever 
of  his  questioning  left  him.  On  either  side  the  arms 
of  the  shore  melted  into  the  gathering  night.  Far 
away  upon  his  right  the  lights  of  Margate  shone 
brightly,  like  a  chain  of  gold  stretched  out  upon  the 
sea ;  in  front  of  him  there  lay  a  wide  and  misty  bay, 
into  which  the  boat  drove  steadily.  All  the  im- 
known  seemed  hidden  there;  all  the  secret,  unrevealed, 
beyond.     There  came  whispers  out  of  that  illimitable 

8  113 


THE   TRUANTS 

bay  to  Warrisden's  ears;  whispers  breathed  upon  the 
north  wind,  and  all  the  whispers  were  whispers  of 
promise,  bidding  him  take  heart.  Warrisden  listened 
and  believed,  uplifted  by  the  grave  quiet  of  the  sea 
and  its  mysterious  width. 

The  City  of  Bristol  turned  northward  into  the  great 
channel  of  the  Swin,  keeping  close  to  the  light -ships  on 
the  left,  so  close  that  Warrisden  from  the  bridge  could 
look  straight  down  upon  their  decks.  The  night  had 
altogether  come — a  night  of  stars.  Clusters  of  lights 
low  down  upon  the  left  showed  where  the  towns  of 
Essex  stood;  upon  the  right  hand  the  homeward- 
bound  ships  loomed  up  ghostlike  and  passed  by;  on 
the  right,  too,  shone  out  the  great  green  globes  of  the 
Mouse  light  like  Neptune's  reading-lamps.  Sheltered 
behind  the  canvas  screen  at  the  corner  of  the  bridge, 
Warrisden  looked  along  the  rake  of  the  unlighted  deck 
below.  He  thought  of  Pamela  waiting  for  his  return 
at  Whitewebs,  but  without  impatience.  The  great 
peace  and  silence  of  the  night  were  the  most  impres- 
sive things  he  had  ever  known.  The  captain's  voice 
complaining  of  the  sea  jarred  upon  him. 

"It's  no  bobby's  job,"  said  the  captain,  in  a  low 
voice.  "It's  home  once  in  three  weeks  from  Saturday 
to  Monday  if  you  are  in  luck,  and  the  rest  of  your 
time  you're  in  carpet  slippers  on  the  bridge.  You'll 
sleep  in  my  chatoo  to-night.  I  sha'n't  turn  in  until 
we  have  passed  the  Outer  Gabbard  and  come  to  the 
open  sea.     That  won't  be  till  four  in  the  morning." 

Warrisden  understood  that  he  was  being  offered  the 
captain's  cabin. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  he,  "the  bench  of  the  saloon  will 
do  very  well  for  me." 

The  captain  did  not  press  his  offer. 

114 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,  there's  more  company  in  the  saloon,"  he  said. 
"I  often  sleep  there  myself.  You  are  bound  for  the 
mission  ship,  I  suppose." 

"  No.  I  want  to  find  a  man  on  the  trawler  Persever- 
ance." 

The  captain  turned.  Warrisden  could  not  see  his 
face,  but  he  knew  from  his  attitude  that  he  was  staring 
at  him  in  amazement. 

"Then  you  must  want  to  see  him  pretty  badly,"  he 
commented.  "The  No'th  Sea  in  February  and  March 
is  not  a  bobby's  job." 

"Bad  weather  is  to  be  expected?"  asked  Warrisden, 

"It  has  been  known,"  said  the  captain,  dryly;  and 
before  the  lights  of  the  Outer  Gabbard  winked  good- 
bye on  the  starboard  quarter  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  City  of  Bristol  was  taking  the  water  over 
her  deck. 

Warrisden  rolled  on  the  floor  of  the  saloon — for  he 
could  not  keep  his  balance  on  the  narrow  bench — and 
tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  But  the  strong  light  of  a  lamp 
glared  upon  his  eyes.  Moreover,  the  heat  was  intoler- 
able. Five  men  slept  in  the  bunks;  Warrisden  made 
a  sixth;  at  four  in  the  morning  the  captain  joined  the 
party  through  his  love  of  company.  The  skylight  and 
the  door  were  both  tightly  closed ;  a  big  fire  burned 
in  the  stove,  and  a  boiling  kettle  of  tea  perpetually 
pufiEed  from  its  spout  a  column  of  warm,  moist  steam. 
Warrisden  felt  his  skin  prickly  beneath  his  clothes ;  he 
gasped  for  fresh  air. 

Living  would  be  rough  upon  the  fish-carrier,  Chase 
had  told  him,  and  rough  Warrisden  found  it.  In  the 
morning  the  steward  rose,  and  made  tea  by  the  sim- 
ple process  of  dropping  a  handful  of  tea  into  the  kettle 
and  filling  it  up  with  water.     A  few  minutes  later  he 

J15 


THE   TRUANTS 

brought  a  dish  of  ham  and  eggs  from  the  galley  and 
slapped  it  down  on  the  table. 

"Breakfast!"  he  cried,  and  the  five  men  opened  their 
eyes,  rubbed  them,  and  without  any  other  preparation 
sat  down  and  ate.  Warrisden  slipped  up  the  com- 
panion, unscrewed  the  skylight,  and  opened  it  for  the 
space  of  an  inch.     Then  he  returned. 

The  City  of  Bristol  was  rolling  heavily,  and  Warris- 
den noticed  with  surprise  that  all  of  the  five  men  gave 
signs  of  discomfort.  Surely,  he  thought,  they  must  be 
used  to  heavy  weather.  But,  nevertheless,  something 
was  wrong.  They  did  not  talk;  finally  the  captain 
looked  upward  and  brought  his  hand  down  upon  the 
table. 

"I  felt  something  was  wrong,"  said  he,  "the  sky- 
light's open." 

All  stared  up  to  the  roof. 

"So  it  is!"  they  exclaimed,  blankly. 

"I  did  that,"  Warrisden  said,  humbly. 

At  once  all  the  faces  were  turned  on  him  in  great 
anxiety. 

"Now  why?"  asked  the  captain.  "Don't  you  like 
it  nice  and  snug?" 

"Yes,  oh  yes,"  Warrisden  said,  hurriedly. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  captain,  and  the  steward  went 
on  deck  and  screwed  the  skylight  down. 

"After  all,  it's  only  for  thirty-six  hours,"  thought 
Warrisden,  as  he  subsequently  bathed  in  a  pail  on 
deck.  But  he  was  wrong.  For  the  Blue  Fleet  had 
gone  a  hundred  miles  north  to  the  Fisher  Bank,  and 
thither  the  City  of  Bristol  followed  it. 

The  City  of  Bristol  sailed  on  to  the  Fisher  Bank  and 
found  an  empty  sea.  It  hunted  the  Blue  Fleet  for 
half  a  dozen  hours,  and  as  night  fell  it  came  upon  a 

ii6 


THE   TRUANTS 

single  trawler  with  a  great  flare-light  suspended  from 
its  yard. 

"They're  getting  in  their  trawl,"  said  the  captain, 
and  he  edged  up  within  earsl^ot. 

"Where's  the  Blue  Fleet?"  he  cried. 

"Gone  back  to  the  Dogger,"  came  the  answer. 

The  captain  swore  and  turned  southward.  For 
four  days  and  nights  Warrisden  pitched  about  on  the 
fish-carrier  and  learned  many  things,  such  as  the  real 
meaning  of  tannin  in  tea  and  the  innumerable  medical 
uses  to  which  "Friar's  Balsam"  can  be  put.  On  the 
morning  of  the  fifth  day  the  City  of  Bristol  steamed 
into  the  middle  of  the  fieet  and  her  engines  stopped. 

These  were  the  days  before  the  steam-trawler.  The 
sailing-ships  were  not  as  yet  laid  up,  two  by  two, 
alongside  Gorleston  Quay,  and  knocked  down  for  a 
song  to  any  purchaser.  Warrisden  looked  over  a 
gray,  savage  sea.  The  air  was  thick  with  spin-drift. 
The  waves  leaped  exultingly  up  from  windward  and 
roared  away  to  leeward  from  under  the  cutter's  keel 
in  a  steep,  uprising  hill  of  foam.  All  about  him  the 
sailing-boats  headed  to  the  wind,  sinking  and  rising 
in  the  furrows,  so  that  Warrisden  would  just  see  a 
brown  top-sail  over  the  edge  of  a  steep  roller  like  a 
shark's  fin,  and  the  next  instant  the  dripping  hull  of 
the  boat  flung  out  upon  a  breaking  crest. 

"You  will  have  to  look  slippy  when  the  punt  from 
the  Perseverance  comes  alongside  with  her  fish,"  the 
captain  shouted.  "The  punt  will  give  you  a  passage 
back  to  the  Perseverance,  but  I  don't  think  you  will  be 
able  to  return  here.  There's  a  northwesterly  gale  blow- 
ing up  and  the  sea  is  increasing  every  moment.  How- 
ever, there  will  be  another  cutter  up  to-morrow,  and 
if  it's  not  too  rough  you  could  be  put  on  board  of  her." 

117 


THE   TRUANTS 

It  took  Warrisden  a  full  minute  to  realize  the  mean- 
ing of  the  captain's  words.  He  looked  at  the  tum- 
bling, breaking  waves;  he  listened  to  the  roar  of  the 
wind  through  the  rigging. 

"The  boats  won't  come  alongside  to-day!"  he  cried. 

"Won't  they?"  the  skipper  replied.     "Look!" 

Certainly  some  manoeuvre  was  in  progress.  The 
trawlers  were  all  forming  to  windward  in  a  rough 
semicircle  about  the  cutter.  Warrisden  could  see  boat 
tackle  being  rigged  to  the  main-yards  and  men  stand- 
ing about  the  boats  capsized  on  deck.  They  were 
actually  intending  to  put  their  fish  on  board  in  the 
face  of  the  storm. 

"You  see,  with  the  gale  blowing  up,  they  mayn't 
get  a  chance  to  put  their  fish  on  board  for  three  or 
four  days  after  this,"  the  captain  explained.  "Oh, 
you  can  take  it  from  me.  The  No'th  Sea  is  not  a 
bobby's  job." 

As  Warrisden  watched,  one  by  one  the  trawlers 
dropped  their  boats  and  loaded  them  with  fish-boxes. 
The  boats  pushed  off,  three  men  to  each,  with  their 
life-belts  about  their  oil-skins,  and  came  down  with 
the  wind  towards  the  fish-carrier.  The  trawlers  bore 
away,  circled  round  the  City  of  Bristol,  and  took  up 
their  formation  to  leeward,  so  that,  having  discharged 
their  fish,  the  boats  might  go  down  again  with  the 
wind  to  their  respective  ships.  Warrisden  watched 
the  boats  piled  up  with  fish-boxes  coming  through  the 
welter  of  the  sea.  It  seemed  some  desperate  race 
was  being  rowed. 

"Can  you  tell  me  which  is  the  boat  from  the  Per- 
severance?'' he  asked. 

"I  think  it's  the  fifth,"  said  the  captain. 

The  boats  came  down,  each  one  the  kernel  of  a  globe 

ii8 


THE  TRUANTS 

of  spray.  Warrisden  watched,  admiring  how  clever- 
ly they  chose  the  little  gaps  and  valleys  in  the  crests 
of  the  waves.  Each  moment  he  looked  to  see  a  boat 
tossed  upward  and  overturned;  each  moment  he 
dreaded  that  boat  would  be  the  fifth.  But  no  boat 
was  overturned.  One  by  one  they  passed  under  the 
stem  of  the  City  of  Bristol  and  came  alongside  under 
the  shelter  of  its  wall. 

The  fifth  boat  ranged  up.     A  man  stood  up  in  the 

stem. 

"The  Perseverance!"  he  cried.  "Fourteen  boxes!" 
and  as  he  spoke  a  great  sea  leaped  up  against  the 
windward  bow  of  the  cutter.  The  cutter  rolled  from 
it  suddenly,  her  low  bulwarks  dipped  under  water  on 
the  leeward  side,  close  by  the  Perseverance's  boat. 

"Shove  off!"  the  man  cried,  who  was  standing  up, 
and  as  he  shouted  he  lurched  and  fell  into  the  bottom 
of  the  boat.  The  two  men  in  the  bow  pushed  off 
with  their  oars,  but  they  were  too  late.  The  cutter's 
bulwark  caught  the  boat  under  the  keel;  it  seemed  she 
must  be  upset  and  men  and  boxes  whelmed  in  the  sea 
unless  a  miracle  happened.  But  the  miracle  did  hap- 
pen. As  the  fish -cutter  righted  she  scooped  onto 
her  deck  the  boat  with  its  boxes  and  its  crew.  The 
incident  all  seemed  to  happen  within  the  fraction  of  a 
second.  Not  a  man  upon  the  fish-cutter  had  the 
time  to  throw  out  a  rope.  Warrisden  saw  the  cutter's 
bulwarks  dip,  the  sailor  falling  in  the  boat,  and  the 
boat  upon  the  deck  of  the  cutter  in  so  swift  a  succes- 
sion that  he  had  not  yet  realized  disaster  was  inevitable 
before  disaster  was  avoided. 

The  sailor  rose  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
stepped  on  deck,  a  stalwart,  dripping  figure. 

"From  the  Perseverance,  sir.     Fourteen  boxes,"  he 

119 


THE   TRUANTS 

said,  looking  up  to  the  captain  on  the  bridge.  And 
Warrisden,  leaning  by  the  captain's  side  upon  the  rail, 
knew  the  sailor  to  be  Tony  Stretton.  The  accent  of 
the  voice  would  have  been  enough  to  assure  him,  but 
Warrisden  knew  the  face  too. 

"This  is  the  man  I  want,"  he  said  to  the  captain. 

"You  must  be  quick  then,"  the  captain  replied. 
"Speak  to  him  while  the  boat  is  being  unloaded." 

Warrisden  descended  onto  the  deck. 

"Mr.  Stretton,"  said  he. 

The  sailor  swung  round  quickly.  There  was  a  look 
of  annoyance  upon  his  face. 

"  You  are  surely  making  a  mistake,"  said  he,  abrupt- 
ly. "We  are  not  acquainted,"  and  he  turned  back  to 
the  fish-boxes. 

"I'm  not  making  a  mistake,"  replied  Warrisden. 
"I  have  come  out  to  the  North  Sea  in  order  to  find 
you." 

Stretton  ceased  from  his  work  and  stood  up.  He 
led  the  way  to  the  stern  of  the  cutter,  where  the  two 
men  were  out  of  earshot. 

"Now,"  he  said.  He  stood  in  front  of  Warrisden 
in  his  sea-boots  and  his  oil-skins,  firmly  planted,  yet 
swaying  to  the  motion  of  the  ship.  There  was  not 
merely  annoyance  in  his  face,  but  he  had  the  stub- 
bom  and  resolute  look  of  a  man  not  lightly  to  be  per- 
suaded. Standing  there  on  the  cutter's  deck,  backed 
by  the  swinging  seas,  there  was  even  an  air  of  mas- 
tery about  him  which  Warrisden  had  not  expected. 
His  attitude  seemed,  somehow,  not  quite  consistent 
with  his  record  of  failure. 

"Now,"  said  Stretton,  "we  must  be  quick.  The 
sea  is  getting  worse  each  minute,  and  I  have  to  get 
back  to  the  Perseverance.     You  are — ?" 

I20 


-*s^. 


HE    STOOD    IX     FRONT    OF     WARRISDEN.     FIRMLY     PLANTED 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Alan  Warrisden,"  said  Warrisden,  "a  stranger  to 
you." 

"Yes,"  Stretton  interrupted;  "how  did  you  find  me 
out?" 

"Chase  told  me." 

Stretton 's  face  flushed,  angrily. 

"He  had  no  right  to  tell  you.  I  wished  for  these 
few  weeks  to  be  alone.  He  gave  me  his  word  he  would 
tell  no  one." 

"  He  had  to  break  his  word,"  said  Warrisden,  firmly. 
"It  is  necessary  that  you  should  come  home  at  once." 

Stretton  laughed.  Warrisden  was  clinging  to  a 
wire  stay  from  the  cutter's  mizzen-mast,  and  even  so 
could  hardly  keep  his  feet.  He  had  a  sense  of  coming 
failure  from  the  very  ease  with  which  Stretton  stood 
resting  his  hands  upon  his  hips,  unsupported,  on  the 
unsteady  deck. 

"I  cannot  come,"  said  Stretton,  abruptly,  and  he 
turned  away.  As  he  turned,  Warrisden  shouted,  for 
in  that  high  wind  words  carried  in  no  other  way: 

"Your  father,  Sir  John  Stretton,  is  dying." 

Stretton  stopped.  He  looked  for  a  time  thought- 
fully into  Warrisden 's  face.  But  there  was  no  change 
in  his  expression  by  which  Warrisden  could  gather 
whether  the  argument  would  prevail  or  no.  And  when 
at  last  he  spoke  it  was  to  say : 

"But  he  has  not  sent  for  me?" 

It  was  the  weak  point  in  Warrisden's  argument,  and 
Stretton  had,  in  his  direct  way,  come  to  it  at  once. 
Warrisden  was  silent. 

"Well?"  asked  Stretton.  "He  has  not  sent  for 
me?" 

"No,"  Warrisden  admitted,  "that  is  true." 

"Then  I  will  not  come." 

121 


THE    TRUANTS 

"  But  though  he  has  not  sent  for  you,  it  is  very 
certain  that  he  wishes  for  your  return,"  Warrisden 
urged.  "Every  night  since  you  have  been  away  the 
candles  have  been  Hghted  in  your  dressing-room  and 
your  clothes  laid  out  in  the  hope  that  on  one  evening 
you  will  walk  in  at  the  door.  On  the  very  first  night, 
the  night  of  the  day  on  which  you  went,  that  was 
done.  It  was  done  by  Sir  John  Stretton's  orders,  and 
by  his  orders  it  has  always  since  been  done." 

Just  for  a  moment  Warrisden  thought  that  his  argu- 
ment would  prevail.  Stretton's  face  softened,  then 
came  a  smile  which  was  almost  wistful  about  his  lips, 
his  eyes  had  a  kindlier  look;  and  the  kindlier  look 
remained.  Kindliness,  too,  was  the  first  tone  audible 
in  his  voice  as  he  replied.  But  the  reply  itself  yielded 
nothing. 

"  He  has  not  sent  for  me?" 

He  looked  curiously  at  Warrisden,  as  if  for  the  first 
time  he  became  aware  of  him  as  a  man  acting  from 
motives,  not  a  mere  instrument  of  persuasion. 

"After  all,  who  did  send  you?"  he  asked.  "My 
wife?" 

"No." 

"Who,  then?" 

"Miss  Pamela  Mardale.' 

Stretton  was  startled  by  the  name.  It  was  really 
the  strongest  argument  Warrisden  had  in  his  armory. 
Only  he  was  not  aware  of  its  strength. 

"Oh!"  said  Stretton,  doubtfully.  "So  Miss  Mar- 
dale  sent  you!" 

He  thought  of  that  morning  in  the  Row,  of  Pamela's 
words:  "I  still  give  the  same  advice.  Do  not  leave 
your  wife."  He  recalled  the  promise  she  had  given, 
although  it  was  seldom  long  absent  from  his  thoughts. 

122 


THE   TRUANTS 

It  might  be  that  she  sent  this  message  in  fulfilment  of 
that  promise.  It  might  be  that,  for  some  unknown 
reason,  he  was  now  needed  at  his  wife's  side.  But  he 
had  no  thought  of  distrust,  he  had  great  faith  in  Milli- 
cent.  She  despised  him,  yes;  but  he  did  not  distrust 
her.  And,  again,  it  might  be  that  Pamela  was  merely 
sending  him  this  news,  thinking  he  would  wish  to  hear 
of  it  in  time.  After  all,  Pamela  was  his  friend.  He 
looked  out  on  the  wild  sea.  Already  the  boats  were 
heading  back  through  the  foam,  each  to  its  trawler. 

"One  must  take  one's  risks,"  he  said.  "So  much  I 
have  learned  here  in  the  North  Sea.  Look!"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  boats.  "Those  boats  are  taking  theirs. 
Yes,  one  must  take  one's  risks.     I  will  not  come." 

He  went  back  to  the  middle  of  the  ship.  The  punt 
of  the  Perseverance  was  already  launched,  the  two 
fishermen  waiting  in  it.  As  it  rose  on  a  swell,  Stretton 
climbed  over  the  bulwarks  and  dropped  into  the 
stem. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said.  "I  have  signed  on  for  eight 
weeks,  and  only  four  have  passed.  I  cannot  run  away 
and  leave  the  ship  short-handed.  Thank  you  for 
coming,  but  one  must  take  one's  risks." 

The  boat  was  pushed  off  and  headed  towards  the 
Perseverance.  The  waves  had  increased,  the  crests 
toppled  down  the  green  slopes  in  foam.  Slowly  the 
boat  was  rowed  down  to  the  trawler,  the  men  now 
stopping  and  backing  water,  now  dashing  on.  War- 
risden  saw  them  reach  the  ship's  side  and  climb  on 
board;  he  saw  the  boat  slung  upward  and  brought  in 
onto  the  deck.  Then  the  screw  of  the  City  of  Bristol 
struck  the  water  again.  Lurching  through  the  heavy 
sea  she  steamed  southward.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
Blue  Fleet  was  lost  to  sight. 

123 


XII 
WARRISDEN  TELLS  OF  HIS  VOYAGE 

WARRISDEN  had  failed.  This  was  the  account 
of  his  mission  which  he  had  to  give  to  Pamela 
Mardale,  and  he  gave  it  without  excuses.  He  landed 
at  Billingsgate  wharf  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  second 
day  after  the  sails  of  the  Blue  Fleet  had  dropped  out 
of  sight  behind  the  screen  of  breaking  waves.  That 
afternoon  he  travelled  down  to  the  village  of  the  three 
poplars.  It  was  night  when  he  stepped  out  of  the 
train  onto  the  platform  of  the  little  station.  One  can 
imagine  what  bitter  and  humiliating  thoughts  occu- 
pied his  mind.  Away  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  lights 
of  the  village  shone  brightly  through  the  clear  night 
air,  just  as  the  Hghts  of  Margate  had  shone  across  the 
bay  when  the  steam-cutter  had  sprung  like  a  thing  alive 
to  the  lift  of  the  sea  beneath  her  bows.  Then  all  the 
breeze  had  whispered  promises;  now  the  high  hopes 
were  fallen.  "Do  not  fail!"  Pamela  had  cried,  with  a 
veritable  passion,  hating  failure  as  an  indignity.  He 
could  hear  the  words  in  the  very  accent  of  her  voice. 
Once  she  had  suffered  failure,  but  it  was  not  to  be 
endured  again.  That  was  what  she  had  meant;  and 
he  had  failed.  He  drove  along  that  straight  road 
which  he  had  traversed  with  Pamela  at  his  side;  he 
slept  under  the  roof  of  the  inn  where  Pamela  had 
claimed  his  help.  The  help  had  been  fruitless,  and 
the  next  morning  he  rode  down  the  hill  and  along  the 

124 


THE   TRUANTS 

road  with  the  white  wood  rails — "the  new  road" — to 
tell  her  so.  The  sun  was  bright;  there  was  a  sparkle 
of  spring  in  the  air;  on  the  black,  leafless  boughs  birds 
sang.  He  looked  back  to  the  three  poplars  pointing 
to  the  sky  from  the  tiny  garden  on  the  crest  of  the 
hill.  Quetta — yes!  But  it  seemed  there  was  to  be 
no  Seistan. 

He  had  started  early,  fearing  that  there  might  be  a 
meet  that  day;  and  he  had  acted  wisely,  for  in  the 
hall  there  were  one  or  two  men  lounging  by  the  fire  in 
scarlet,  and  Pamela  was  wearing  her  riding-habit  when 
she  received  him.  He  was  shown  into  a  Httle  room 
which  opened  onto  the  garden  behind  the  house,  and 
thither  Pamela  came. 

"You  are  alone!"  she  said. 

"Yes;  Stretton  would  not  come." 

"None  the  less,  I  am  very  grateful." 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  sat  down,  with  her 
eyes  upon  him,  waiting  for  his  story.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  visible  upon  his  face,  but  not  upon  hers. 
Pamela's,  indeed,  was  to  him  at  this  moment  rather 
inscrutable.  It  was  not  indiff'erent,  however.  He 
recognized  that,  and  was,  in  a  way,  consoled.  It  had 
been  his  fear  that  at  the  first  word  she  would  dismiss 
the  subject  and  tvirn  her  back  on  it  for  good.  On  the 
contrary,  she  was  interested,  attentive. 

"You  found  him,  then?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     You  would  Hke  to  hear  what  passed?" 

"Of  course." 

"Even  though  I  failed?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise  at  his  insist- 
ence. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  a  little  impatiently. 

"We  were  nearly  three  days  longer  in  reaching  the 

125 


THE   TRUANTS 

Blue  Fleet  than  we  anticipated,"  he  began.  "  Stretton 
came  on  board  the  fish-cutter — "  And  Pamela  inter- 
rupted him: 

"Why  were  you  nearly  three  days  longer?  Tell  me 
about  your  own  journey  out  to  the  fleet  from  the  be- 
ginning." 

She  was,  in  fact,  as  much  interested  in  her  messen- 
ger as  in  the  errand  upon  which  she  had  sent  him. 
Warrisden  began  to  see  that  his  journey,  after  all,  was 
not  entirely  a  defeat.  The  alliance  to  which  they  had 
set  their  hands  up  there  in  the  village  on  the  hill  was 
bearing  its  fruit.  It  had  set  them  in  a  new  relation- 
ship to  each  other,  and  in  a  closer  intimacy. 

He  told  the  story  of  his  voyage,  making  light  of  his 
hardships  on  the  steam-cutter.  She,  on  the  other 
hand,  made  much  of  them. 

"To  quote  your  captain,"  she  remarked,  with  a 
smile,  "it  was  not  a  bobby's  job." 

Warrisden  laughed,  and  told  her  of  Stretton 's  ar- 
rival in  the  punt  of  the  Perseverance.  He  described 
the  way  in  which  he  had  come  on  board ;  he  related  the 
conversation  which  had  passed  between  them  at  the 
stern  of  the  cutter. 

"He  hadn't  the  look  of  a  man  who  had  failed," 
Warrisden  continued.  "  He  stood  there  on  the  swing- 
ing deck  with  his  legs  firmly  planted  apart,  as  easily 
as  if  he  were  standing  on  a  stone  pavement.  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  clinging  desperately  to  a  stay. 
He  stood  there,  with  the  seas  swinging  up  behind  him, 
and  stubbornly  refused  to  come." 

"  You  told  him  of  his  father's  illness  ?"  asked  Pamela. 

"He  replied  that  his  father  had  not  sent  for  him." 

"You  spoke  of  the  candles  lit  every  night?" 

"  His  answer  was  the  same.     His  father  l^ad  ngt  sen^ 

J?6 


THE  TRUANTS 

for  him.  Besides,  he  had  his  time  to  serve.  He  had 
signed  on  for  eight  weeks.  There  was  only  one  mo- 
ment when  I  thought  that  there  was  a  chance  I  might 
persuade  him;  and,  indeed,  my  persuasions  had  really 
nothing  to  do  with  it  at  all.  It  was  just  the  mention 
of  your  name." 

"My  name?"  asked  Pamela,  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  In  answer  to  a  question  of  his  I  told  him  that 
I  had  been  sent  out  by  you,  and  for  a  moment  he 
faltered." 

Pamela  nodded  her  head  in  comprehension. 

"I  understand;  but  he  refused  in  the  end?" 

"Yes.     He  said:  'One  must  take  one's  risks.'" 

Pamela  repeated  the  sentence  softly  to  herself;  and 
Warrisden  crossed  over  to  her  side.  His  voice  took 
a  gentler  note,  and  one  still  more  serious  than  that 
which  he  had  used. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  he  asked.  "You 
sent  me  out  with  a  message  to  Stretton.  I  think  that 
he  has  sent  me  back  with  a  message  for  you — 'One 
must  take  one's  risks.'  He  said  that  he  had  learned 
that  in  the  North  Sea.  He  pointed  to  the  little  boats 
carrying  the  fish -boxes  to  the  steamer  through  the 
heavy,  breaking  seas.  Each  man  in  each  of  the 
boats  was  taking  his  risks.  'Whether  it's  lacing  your 
topsail  or  taking  in  a  reef,'  he  said,  'one  must  take 
one's  risks.'" 

Pamela  was  silent  for  a  while  after  he  had  spoken. 
She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  face 
most  serious.  Then  she  looked  up  at  her  companion 
with  a  very  friendly  smile ;  but  she  did  not  answer  him 
at  all.  And  when  she  spoke,  she  spoke  words  which 
utterly  surprised  him.  All  the  time  since  the  ketches 
had  disappeared  behind  the  waves  he  had  been  plagued 

127 


THE   TRUANTS 

with  the  thought  of  the  distress  which  defeat  would 
cause  her;  and  here  she  was  saying: 

"I  am  very  glad  that  you  went  out  to  the  North 
Sea  for  me,  even  though  the  journey  proved  fruitless. 
It  makes  us  so  much  the  better  friends,  doesn't  it  ? 
And  that  is  a  gain  for  me.  Think  of  it  that  way,  and 
you  will  not  mind  the  hardships  and  the  waste  of 
time." 

She  held  out  her  hand — rather  a  rare  act  with  her — 
and  Warrisden  took  it.  Then  came  the  explanation 
why  defeat  meant  so  little  just  at  this  time. 

"I  need  not  have  sent  you  at  all,"  she  continued, 
"could  I  have  foreseen.  Sir  John  Stretton  died  yes- 
terday afternoon,  suddenly.  I  received  a  telegram 
last  night  from  Millie.  So  Tony  will  naturally  come 
home  when  his  four  weeks  are  up.  I  wrote  last  night 
to  MilHe  telling  her  where  Tony  was."  She  added, 
"I  am  glad  that  I  did  not  foresee." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  they  walked  out  through 
the  hall  to  the  front  of  the  house.  Warrisden  helped 
her  into  the  saddle,  and  she  rode  away. 

Sir  John  had  died,  and  Stretton  would  now  natural- 
ly come  home.  That  explained  to  Warrisden  how  it 
was  that  Pamela  made  so  little  of  the  defeat.  But  it 
was  not  the  whole  explanation.  Pamela  was  waking 
from  her  long  sleep,  like  the  princess  in  the  fairy-tale, 
and  the  mere  act  of  waking  was  a  pleasure.  In  the 
stir  of  emotions,  hitherto  rigorously  suppressed,  in  the 
exercise  of  sympathies,  she  found  a  delight  such  as  one 
may  find  in  the  mere  stretching  of  one's  muscles  after 
a  deep  rest.  The  consciousness  of  life  as  a  thing  en- 
joyable began  to  tingle  in  her.  She  was  learning  again 
lessons  which  she  remembered  once  to  have  learn- 
ed before.     The  joy  of  being  needed  by  those  one 

128 


THE   TRUANTS 

needs — there  was  one  of  them.  She  had  learned  a  new- 
one  to-day — "One  must  take  one's  risks."  Shere- 
peated  the  sentence  over  to  herself  as  she  rode  between 
the  hedge-rows  on  this  morning  which  had  the  sparkle 
of  spring.  A  few  days  ago  she  would  have  put  that 
view  of  Hfe  away  from  her.  Now,  old  as  it  was,  simple 
as  it  was,  she  pondered  upon  it  as  though  it  were  a 
view  quite  novel.  She  found  it,  moreover,  pleasant. 
She  had  travelled,  indeed,  farther  along  the  new  road 
than  she  was  aware.  The  truth  is  that  she  had  rather 
hugged  to  herself  the  great  trouble  which  had  over- 
shadowed her  life.  She  had  done  so  unwittingly.  She 
had  allowed  it  to  dominate  her  after  it  had  lost  its 
power  to  dominate,  and  from  force  of  habit.  She  be- 
gan to  be  aware  of  it  now  that  she  had  stepped  out 
from  her  isolation  and  was  gathering  again  the  strings 
of  her  life  into  her  hands. 

Pamela  was  wrong  in  her  supposition  that  since  Sir 
John's  death  the  danger  for  MiUicent  was  at  an  end. 
Tony  Stretton  would  now  return  home,  she  thought; 
and  nothing  was  further  from  Tony's  thoughts.  At  the 
time  when  Pamela  was  riding  through  the  lanes  of 
Leicestershire  on  that  morning  of  early  spring,  Tony 
was  lying  in  his  bunk  in  the  cabin  of  the  Perseverance 
reading  over,  for  the  thousandth  time,  certain  letters 
which  he  kept  beneath  his  pillow.  This  week  he  kept 
the  long  night  watch  from  midnight  until  eight  of  the 
morning;  it  was  now  eleven,  and  he  had  the  cabin  to 
himself.  The  great  gale  had  blown  itself  out.  The 
trawl,  which  for  three  days  had  remained  safely  stowed 
under  the  lee  bulwarks,  was  now  dragging  behind  the 
boat;  with  her  topsails  set  the  ketch  was  sailing  full 
and  by  the  wind;  and  down  the  open  companion  the 
sunlight  streamed  into  the  cabin  and  played  Hke  water 

9  129 


THE   TRUANTS 

upon  the  floor.  The  letters  Tony  Stretton  was  reading 
were  those  which  Mihie  had  sent  him.  Disappoint- 
ment was  plain  in  every  line;  they  were  sown  with 
galling  expressions  of  pity;  here  and  there  contempt 
peeped  out.  Yet  he  was  glad  to  have  them;  they  were 
his  monitors,  and  he  found  a  stimulus  in  their  very 
cruelty.  Though  he  knew  them  by  heart,  he  con- 
tinually read  them  on  mornings  like  this,  when  the  sun 
shone  down  the  companion,  and  the  voices  of  his  fel- 
low-sailors called  cheerily  overhead;  at  night,  leaning 
upon  his  elbow,  and  spelling  them  out  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  swinging  lamp,  while  the  crew  slept  about  him 
in  their  bunks. 

To  his  companions  he  was  rather  a  mystery.  To 
some  of  them  he  was  just  down  on  his  luck;  to  others 
he  was  a  man  "who  had  done  something." 

"I  suppose  you  have  come  out  here  to  lie  doggo," 
said  the  skipper  to  him,  shouting  out  the  words  in  the 
height  of  the  gale,  when  both  were  standing  by  the 
lashed  wheel  one  night.  "I  ask  no  questions.  All  I 
say  is,  you  do  your  work.  I  have  had  no  call  to  slap 
a  haddick  across  your  face.  I  say  that  fair  and  square. 
Water!" 

He  concluded  his  speech  with  a  yell.  Stretton  saw 
a  ragged  line  of  white  suddenly  flash  out  in  the  dark- 
ness high  up  by  the  weather  bow  and  descend  with  a 
roar.  It  was  a  wave  breaking  down  upon  the  deck. 
Both  men  flung  themselves  down  the  companion,  and 
the  water  sluiced  after  them  and  washed  them  strug- 
gling about  the  floor  of  the  cabin.  The  wave  saved 
Stretton  from  the  need  to  reply,  and  the  skipper  did 
not  refer  to  the  subject  again. 

Stretton  had  signed  on  for  this  cruise  on  the  Per- 
severance because  he  wanted  a  time  during  which  he 

130 


THE   TRUANTS 

could  be  quite  sure  of  his  livelihood.  So  far  he  had 
failed.  He  must  map  out  a  new  course  for  himself 
upon  his  life's  chart.  But  for  that  work  he  needed 
time  for  thought,  and  that  time,  up  till  now,  he  had 
not  enjoyed.  The  precarious  existence  which  he  had 
led  since  he  had  lost  the  half  of  Millie's  small  fortune — 
now  a  clerk  in  a  store,  and  a  failure;  now  a  commercial 
traveller,  and  again  a  failure — had  left  him  little  breath- 
ing-space wherein  to  gather  up  his  slow  thoughts  and 
originate  a  new  plan.  That  breathing-space,  how- 
ever, the  Perseverance  had  afforded  him.  During  the 
long  watches  on  fine  nights,  when  the  dark  sails, 
swinging  up  and  down  to  the  motion  of  the  boat,  re- 
vealed and  obscured  the  stars,  he  wrestled  with  the 
difficult  problem  of  his  life. 

He  could  go  back  when  his  cruise  was  over  if  he 
chose.  His  father  was  dying;  he  faced  the  fact  quite 
frankly.  The  object  with  which  he  set  out  would  be, 
after  all,  accomplished,  though  not  accomplished  by 
himself.  There  would  be  a  house  for  Millie  and  him- 
self independent  of  the  old  man's  caprice;  their  life 
would  be  freed  from  the  shadow  of  his  tyranny;  their 
seclusion  would  come  to  an  end;  the}^  could  let  the 
sunlight  in  upon  their  lives.  Yes!  But  there  were 
the  letters  down  in  the  cabin  there,  underneath  his 
pillow.  Did  not  they  alter  the  position  ?  He  had 
gone  away  to  keep  his  wife — just,  in  a  word,  to  pre- 
vent that  very  contempt  of  which  the  letters  gave  him 
proof.  Must  he  not  now  stay  away  in  order  to  regain 
her?  His  wife  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  his  thoughts. 
He  had  no  blame  for  her,  however  much  her  written 
words  might  hurt.  He  looked  back  upon  their  life 
together,  its  pleasant  beginnings  when  they  were  not 
merely  lovers,  but  very  good  friends  into  the  bargain, 

131 


THE   TRUANTS 

For  it  is  possible  to  be  the  one  and  yet  not  the  other. 
They  were  good  days,  the  days  in  the  Uttle  house  in 
Deanery  Street,  days  full  of  fun  and  good  temper  and 
amusement.  He  recalled  their  two  seasons  in  Lon- 
don —  London  bright  with  summer  —  and  making  of 
each  long  day  a  too-short  holiday.  Then  had  come 
the  change,  sudden,  dark,  and  complete.  In  the  place 
of  freedom,  subjection;  in  the  place  of  company,  isola- 
tion; in  the  place  of  friends,  a  sour  old  man,  querulous 
and  exacting.  Then  had  come  the  great  hope  of  an- 
other home;  and  swiftly  upon  that  hope  its  failure 
through  his  incapacity.  He  could  not  blame  her  for 
the  letters  underneath  his  pillow.  He  was  no  less  set 
upon  regaining  her  than  he  had  been  before  on  keep- 
ing her.  His  love  for  her  had  been  the  chief  motive 
of  his  life  when  he  left  the  house  in  Berkeley  Square. 
It  remained  so  still.  Could  he  go  back?  he  asked  him- 
self. 

There  was  one  inducement  persuading  him  always 
to  answer  "Yes" — the  sentence  which  Pamela  had 
spoken,  and  which  she  had  refused  to  explain.  "  He 
should  be  at  his  wife's  side."  He  had  never  understood 
that  saying;  it  remained  fixed  in  his  memory,  plaguing 
him.  "  He  should  be  at  his  wife's  side."  So  Pamela 
Mardale  had  said,  and  for  what  Pamela  said  he  had 
the  greatest  respect.  Well,  he  could  be  in  a  few  weeks 
at  his  wife's  side.  But  would  it  not  be  at  too  great  a 
cost  unless  he  had  first  redeemed  himself  from  her 
contempt  ? 

Thus  he  turned  and  turned,  and  saw  no  issue  any- 
where. The  days  slipped  by,  and  one  morning  the 
fish-cutter  brought  to  him  a  letter  which  told  him 
that  four  days  ago  his  father  had  died.  He  could  not 
reach  home  in  time  for  the  funeral,  even  if  he  started 

132 


THE   TRUANTS 

at  once.     And  he  could  not  start   at   once;  he  had 
signed  on  for  eight  weeks. 

But  the  letter  left  him  face  to  face  with  the  old 
problem.  Should  he  go  back  or  should  he  stay  away  ? 
And  if  he  stayed  away,  what  should  he  do  ? 

He  came  on  deck  one  morning,  and  his  skipper  said : 

"There's  a  fog  on  land,  Stretton." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Stretton. 

The  captain  pointed  to  some  birds  hovering  over 
the  masts  of  the  ketch. 

"Those  are  land  birds,"  said  he.  "Look,  there's  a 
thrush  and  there's  a  blackbird.  You  won't  find  them 
so  far  from  land  without  a  reason.  There  has  been  a 
fog,  and  very  likely  a  storm.  They  have  lost  their 
bearings  in  the  fog." 

The  birds  hovered  about  the  ships  of  the  fleet,  call- 
ing plaintively.  Stretton,  watching  them,  felt  very 
much  like  one  of  those  birds.  He,  too,  had  lost  his 
way  in  a  fog,  and,  though  he  made  no  outcry,  his  need 
of  guidance  was  no  less  great  than  theirs. 

Then  came  a  morning  at  last  when  the  trawl  was 
hauled  in  for  the  last  time,  and  the  boat's  head  pointed 
towards  Yarmouth. 

"When  shall  we  reach  harbor?"  Stretton  asked, 
anxiously. 

"  If  this  breeze  holds,  in  twenty-four  hours,"  replied 
the  skipper. 

Twenty-four  hours!  Just  a  day  and  a  night,  and 
Stretton  would  step  from  the  deck  onto  Gorleston 
Quay;  and  he  was  no  nearer  to  the  solution  of  his 
problem  than  when  he  had  stepped  from  the  quay 
onto  the  deck  eight  weeks  ago.  Those  eight  weeks 
were  to  have  resolved  all  his  perplexities,  and  lo!  the 
eight  weeks  had  passed. 

133 


THE   TRUANTS 

He  was  in  a  fever  of  restlessness.  He  paced  the 
deck  all  the  day  when  he  was  not  standing  at  the 
wheel;  at  night  he  could  not  sleep,  but  stood  leaning 
over  the  bulwarks,  watching  the  stars  trembling  in 
the  quiet  water.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the 
Perseverance  passed  a  light-ship.  Already  the  boat 
was  so  near  home!  And  in  the  hour  which  followed, 
his  eight  weeks  of  solitary  communing,  forced,  as  it 
were,  by  immediate  necessity,  bore  their  fruit.  His 
inspiration — he  counted  the  idea  no  less  than  an  in- 
spiration—  came  to  him  suddenly.  He  saw  all  at 
once  his  course  marked  out  for  him  upon  the  chart  of 
life.  He  would  not  suffer  a  doubt  of  it  to  enter  his 
mind;  he  welcomed  it  with  passion,  and  the  great  load 
was  lifted  from  his  mind.  The  idea  had  come.  It 
was  water  in  a  dry  land. 

A  fisherman  leaning  over  the  bulwark  by  Stretton's 
side  heard  him  suddenly  begin  to  sing  over  to  himself 
a  verse  or  two  of  a  song: 

"  '  Oh,  come  out,  mah  love!     I'm  a-waiting  foh  you  heah! 
Dean'  you  keep  yuh  window  closed  to-night.'  " 

It  was  a  coon  song,  which  Stretton  was  humming 
over  to  himself.  His  voice  dropped  to  a  murmur. 
He  stopped  and  laughed  softly  to  himself,  as  though 
the  song  had  very  dear  associations  in  his  thoughts. 
Then  his  voice  rose  again,  and  there  was  now  a  kind 
of  triumph  in  the  lilt  of  the  song  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  words : 

"'De  stars  all  a-gwine  put  day  httle  ones  to  bed 
Wid  dey  "hush  now,  sing  a  lullaby," 
De  man  in  de  moon  nod  his  sleepy,  sleepy  head. 
And  de  sandman  put  a  little  in  his  eye.'  " 

134 


THE   TRUANTS 

The  words  went  lilting  out  over  the  quiet  sea.  It 
seemed  to  Stretton  that  they  came  from  a  lighted 
window  just  behind  him,  and  were  sung  in  a  woman's 
voice.  He  was  standing  on  a  lawn  surrounded  by- 
high,  dark  trees  in  the  warmth  of  a  summer  night.  He 
was  looking  out  past  the  islets  over  eight  miles  of  quiet 
water  to  the  clustered  Hghts  of  the  yachts  in  Oban 
Bay.  The  coon  song  was  that  which  his  wife  had 
sung  to  him  on  one  evening  he  was  never  to  forget; 
and  this  night  he  had  recovered  its  associations.  It 
was  no  longer  "a  mere  song  sung  by  somebody."  It 
seemed  to  him,  so  quickly  did  his  anticipations  for 
once  outrun  his  judgment,  that  he  had  already  re- 
covered his  wife. 

The  Perseverance  was  moored  alongside  of  the  quay 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  just  at  that  time 
Millie  was  reading  a  letter  of  condolence  from  Lionel 
Gallon. 


XIII 
TONY    STRETTON    RETURNS   TO   STEPNEY 

MR.  CHASE  left  the  mission  quite  early  in  the 
evening  and  walked  towards  his  lodging.  That 
side  of  his  nature  which  clamored  for  enjoyments  and 
a  life  of  luxury  was  urgent  with  him  to-night.  As 
he  turned  into  his  street  he  began  to  debate  with  him- 
self whether  he  should  go  in  search  of  a  cab  and  drive 
westward  out  of  the  squalor.  A  church  clock  had  just 
struck  nine;  he  would  find  his  club  open  and  his  friends 
about  the  fire.  Thus  debating,  he  came  to  his  own 
door,  and  had  unconsciously  taken  his  latch-key  from 
his  pocket  before  he  had  decided  upon  his  course. 
The  latch-key  decided  him.  He  opened  the  door  and 
went  quickly  up  to  his  sitting-room.  The  gas  was 
low,  and  what  Hght  there  was  came  from  the  fire. 
Chase  shut  the  door  gently,  and  his  face  underwent  a 
change.  There  came  a  glitter  into  his  eyes,  a  smile 
to  his  lips.  He  crossed  to  the  Httle  cupboard  in  the 
corner  and  unlocked  it,  stealthily,  even  though  he  was 
alone.  As  he  put  his  hand  into  it  and  grasped  the 
decanter,  something  stirred  in  his  arm-chair.  The 
back  of  the  chair  was  towards  him.  He  remained  for 
a  second  or  two  motionless,  listening.  But  the  sound 
was  not  repeated.  Chase  noiselessly  locked  the  cup- 
board again  and  came  back  to  the  fire.  A  man  was 
sitting  asleep  in  the  chair. 

Chase  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  shook  him. 

136 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Stretton,"  he  said;  and  Tony  Stretton  opened  his 
eyes. 

"I  fell  asleep  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

"When  did  you  get  back?"  asked  Chase. 

"I  landed  at  Yarmouth  this  morning.  I  came  up 
to  London  this  afternoon." 

Chase  turned  up  the  gas  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  You  have  not  been  home,  then  ?"  he  said.  "  There 
is  news  waiting  for  you  there.     Your  father  is  dead!" 

"I  know,"  Stretton  replied.  "He  died  a  month 
ago." 

Mr.  Chase  was  perplexed.  He  drew  up  a  chair  to 
the  fire  and  sat  down. 

"You  know  that?"  he  asked,  slowly;  "and  yet  you 
have  not  gone  home?" 

"  No,"  rephed  Stretton.    "And  I  do  not  mean  to  go." 

Stretton  was  speaking  in  the  quietest  and  most 
natural  way.  There  was  no  trace  in  his  manner  of 
that  anxiety  which  during  the  last  few  days  had  kept 
him  restless  and  uneasy.  He  had  come  to  his  decision. 
Chase  was  aware  of  the  stubborn  persistence  of  his 
friend,  and  it  was  rather  to  acquire  knowledge  than 
to  persuade  that  he  put  his  questions. 

"But  why?  You  went  away  to  make  an  indepen- 
dent home,  free  from  the  restrictions  under  which  you 
and  your  wife  were  living.  Well,  you  have  got  that 
home  now.     The  reason  for  your  absence  has  gone." 

Stretton  shook  his  head. 

"The  reason  remains.  Indeed,  it  is  stronger  now 
than  it  was  when  I  first  left  England,"  he  answered. 
He  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows  upon  his  knees, 
gazing  into  the  fire.  The  light  played  upon  his  face, 
and  Chase  could  not  but  notice  the  change  which  these 
few  months  had  brought  to  him.     He  had  grown  thin, 

137 


THE   TRUANTS 

and  rather  worn;  he  had  lost  the  comfortable  look  of 
prosperity;  his  face  was  tanned.  But  there  was  more. 
It  might  have  been  expected  that  the  rough  surround- 
ings amid  which  Stretton  had  lived  would  leave  their 
marks.  He  might  have  become  rather  coarse,  rather 
gross  to  the  eye.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  a  look  of 
refinement.  It  was  the  long  battle  with  his  own 
thoughts  which  had  left  the  marks.  The  mind  was 
showing  through  the  flesh.  The  face  had  become 
spiritualized. 

"Yes,  the  reason  remains,"  said  Stretton.  "I  left 
home  to  keep  my  wife.  We  lived  a  life  of  quarrels. 
All  the  little  memories,  the  associations,  the  thousand 
and  one  small  private  things — ideas,  thoughts,  words, 
jokes  even,  which  two  people  who  care  very  much  for 
each  other  have  in  common — we  were  losing,  and  so 
quickly,  so  very  quickly.  I  can't  express  half  what 
I  mean.  But  haven't  you  seen  a  man  and  a  woman  at 
a  dinner-table,  when  some  chance  sentence  is  spoken, 
suddenly  look  at  each  other  just  for  a  second,  smile 
perhaps,  at  all  events  speak  though  no  word  is  spoken  ? 
Well,  that  kind  of  intimacy  was  going.  I  saw  indif- 
ference coming,  perhaps  dislike,  perhaps  contempt; 
yes,  contempt,  just  because  I  sat  there  and  looked  on. 
So  I  went  away.  But  the  contempt  has  come.  Oh, 
don't  think  I  believe  that  I  made  a  mistake  in  going 
away.  It  would  have  come  none  the  less  had  I  stayed. 
But  I  have  to  reckon  with  the  fact  that  it  has  come." 

Mr.  Chase  sat  following  Stretton's  words  with  a  very 
close  attention.  Never  had  Stretton  spoken  to  him 
with  so  much  frankness  before. 

"Go  on,"  said  Chase.  "What  you  are  saying  is — 
much  of  it — news  to  me." 

"Well,  suppose  that  I  were  to  go  back  now,"  Stret- 

138 


THE   TRUANTS 

ton  resumed,  "at  once — do  you  see? — that  contempt 
is  doubled." 

"No,"  cried  Chase. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Stretton  insisted.  "Look  at  it  from 
Millie's  point  of  view,  not  from  yours,  not  even  from 
mine.  Look  at  the  history  of  the  incident  from  the 
beginning!  Work  it  out  as  she  would;  nay,"  he  cor- 
rected himself,  remembering  the  letters,  "as  she  has. 
I  leave  her  when  things  are  at  their  worst.  That's  not 
all.  I  take  half  MilHe's  fortune  and  am  fool  enough 
to  lose  it  right  away.  And  that's  not  all.  I  stay 
away  in  the  endeavor  to  recover  the  lost  ground,  and 
I  continually  fail.  Meanwhile  Millie  has  the  dreary, 
irksome,  exacting,  unrequited  life,  which  I  left  behind, 
to  get  through  as  best  she  can  alone;  without  pleasure, 
and  she  hkes  pleasure — "  He  suddenly  looked  at 
Chase,  with  a  challenge  in  his  eyes.  "Why  shouldn't 
she?"  he  asked,  abruptly.     Chase  agreed. 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "I 
am  not  disapproving." 

Stretton  resumed  his  former  attitude,  his  former 
tone. 

"Without  friends,  and  she  is  fond  of  having  friends 
about  her;  without  any  chance  of  gratifying  her  spirits 
or  her  youth!  To  make  her  life  still  more  dishearten- 
ing, every  mail  which  reaches  her  from  New  York 
brings  her  only  another  instalment  of  my  disastrous 
record.  Work  it  out  from  her  point  of  view,  Chase; 
then  add  this  to  crown  it  all."  He  leaned  forward 
towards  Chase  and  emphasized  his  words  with  a  gest- 
ure of  his  hand.  "The  first  moment  when  her  life 
suddenly  becomes  easy,  and  does  so  through  no  help 
of  mine,  I— the  failure— come  scurrying  back  to  share 
it.     No,  Chase,  no!" 

139 


THE   TRUANTS 

He  uttered  his  refusal  to  accept  that  position  with 
a  positive  violence,  and  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair. 
Chase  answered,  ciuietly: 

"Surely  you  are  forgetting  that  it  is  your  father's 
wealth  which  makes  her  life  easy." 

"  I  am  not  forgetting  it  at  all." 

"  It's  your  father's  wealth,"  Chase  repeated.  "You 
have  a  right  to  share  in  it." 

"Yes,"  Stretton  admitted;  "but  what  have  rights 
to  do  with  the  question  at  all  ?  If  my  wife  thinks  me 
no  good,  will  my  rights  save  me  from  her  contempt?" 

And  before  that  blunt  question  Mr.  Chase  was  silent. 
It  was  too  direct,  too  unanswerable.  Stretton  rose 
from  his  chair  and  stood  looking  down  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Just  consider  the  story  I  should  have  to  tell  Millie 
to-night — by  George!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly — "if  I 
went  back  to-night.  I  start  out  with  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  of  hers  to  make  a  home  and  a  competence,  and 
within  a  few  months  I  am  working  as  a  hand  on  a 
North  Sea  trawler  at  nineteen  shillings  a  week." 

"A  story  of  hardships  undergone  for  her  sake,"  said 
Chase;  "for  that's  the  truth  of  your  story,  Stretton. 
And  don't  you  think  the  hardships  would  count  for 
ever  so  much  more  than  any  success  you  could  have 
won  ?" 

"Hardships!"  exclaimed  Stretton,  with  a  laugh. 
"I  think  I  would  find  it  difficult  to  make  a  moving 
tale  out  of  my  hardships.  And  I  wouldn't  if  I  could — 
no!" 

As  a  fact,  although  it  was  unknown  to  Tony,  Chase 
was  wrong.  Had  Stretton  told  his  story  never  so 
vividly,  it  would  have  made  no  diflference.  Millie 
Stretton  had  not  the  imagination  to  realize  what  those 

140 


THE   TRUANTS 

hardships  had  been.  Tony's  story  would  have  been 
to  her  just  a  story,  caUing,  no  doubt,  for  exclama- 
tions of  tenderness  and  pity.  But  she  could  not  have 
understood  what  he  had  felt,  what  he  had  thought, 
what  he  had  endured.  Deeper  feelings  and  a  wider 
sympathy  than  Millie  Stretton  was  dowered  with 
would  have  been  needed  for  comprehension. 

Stretton  walked  across  the  room  and  came  back  to 
the  fire.  He  looked  down  at  Chase  with  a  smile. 
"Very  likely  you  think  I  am  a  great  fool,"  he  said,  in 
a  gentler  voice  than  he  had  used  till  now.  "  No  doubt 
nine  men  out  of  ten  would  say:  'Take  the  gifts  the 
gods  send  you,  and  let  the  rest  slide.  What  if  you 
and  your  wife  drift  apart?  You  won't  be  the  only 
couple.'  But,  frankly,  Chase,  that  is  not  good  enough. 
I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  it — the  boredom,  the  grad- 
ual ossification.  Oh  no;  I'm  not  content  with  that! 
You  see.  Chase  "—he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  gazed 
steadily  into  the  fire;  then  he  went  on  quite  simply, 
"you  see,  I  care  for  Millie  very  much." 

Chase  knew  well  what  weight  to  give  to  that  short 
sentence.  Had  it  been  more  elaborate  it  would  have 
meant  less.  It  needed  no  other  commentary  than 
the  quiet  sincerity  with  which  it  was  uttered. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  he  said. 

Stretton  seated  himself  again  in  his  chair  and  took 
out  a  brier  pipe  from  his  pocket.  The  pipe  had  an 
open  metal  covering  over  the  bowl. 

"  I  need  that  no  longer,"  Stretton  said,  with  a  laugh, 
as  he  removed  it.  Then  he  took  out  a  pouch,  filled  his 
pipe,  and  lighted  it. 

"Have  a  whiskey-and-soda?"  said  Chase. 

"No,  thanks." 

Chase  lighted  a  cigarette  and  looked  at  his  friend 

141 


THE   TRUANTS 

with  curiosity.  The  change  which  he  had  noticed  in 
Stretton's  looks  had  been  just  as  noticeable  in  his 
words.  This  man  sitting  opposite  to  him  was  no 
longer  the  Tony  Stretton  who  had  once  come  to  him 
for  advice.  That  man  had  been  slow  of  thought, 
halting  of  speech,  good-humored,  friendly;  but  a  man 
with  whom  it  was  difficult  to  get  at  close  quarters. 
Talk  with  him  a  hundred  times,  and  you  seemed  to 
know  him  no  better  than  you  did  at  the  moment 
when  first  you  were  introduced  to  him.  Here,  how- 
ever, was  a  man  who  had  thought  out  his  problem — 
was,  moreover,  able  lucidly  to  express  it. 

"Well,"  said  Chase,  "you  are  determined  not  to  go 
back?" 

"Not  yet,"  Stretton  corrected. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do ?" 

The  question  showed  how  great  the  change  had  been, 
begun  by  the  hard  times  in  New  York,  completed  by 
the  eight  weeks  in  the  North  Sea.  For  Chase  put  the 
question.  He  no  longer  offered  advice,  understanding 
that  Stretton  had  not  come  to  ask  for  it. 

"I  propose  to  enlist  in  the  French  Foreign  Legion." 

Stretton  spoke  with  the  most  matter-of-fact  air  im- 
aginable; he  might  have  been  naming  the  house  at 
which  he  was  to  dine  the  next  night.  Nevertheless, 
Chase  started  out  of  his  chair;  he  stared  at  his  com- 
panion in  a  stupefaction. 

"No,"  said  Stretton,  calmly;  "I  am  not  off  my 
head,  and  I  have  not  been  drinking.  Sit  down  again, 
and  think  it  over." 

Chase  obeyed,  and  Stretton  proceeded  to  expound 
that  inspiration  which  had  come  to  him  the  night  be- 
fore. 

"What  else  should  I  do?     You  know  my  object, 

142 


THE   TRUANTS 

now.  I  have  to  re-establish  myself  in  my  wife's 
thoughts.  How  else  can  I  do  it?  What  professions 
are  open  to  me  in  which  I  could  gain,  I  don't  say  dis- 
tinction, but  mere  recognition?  I  am  not  a  money- 
maker; that,  at  all  events,  is  evident.  I  have  had  ex- 
perience enough  during  the  last  months  to  know  that 
if  I  lived  to  a  thousand  I  should  never  make  money." 

"I  think  that's  true,"  Chase  agreed,  thoughtfully. 

"Luckily  there's  no  longer  any  need  that  I  should 
try.  What  then?  Run  through  the  professions, 
Chase,  and  find  one,  if  you  can,  in  which  a  man  at  my 
age — twenty-nine — with  my  ignorance,  my  want  of 
intellect,  has  a  single  chance  of  success.  The  bar? 
It's  laughable.  The  sea?  I  am  too  old.  The  army? 
I  resigned  my  commission  years  ago.     So  what  then  ?" 

He  waited  for  Chase  to  speak,  and  Chase  was  silent. 
He  waited  with  a  smile,  knowing  that  Chase  could 
not  speak. 

"There  must  be  an  alternative,"  Chase  said,  doubt- 
fully, at  last. 

"Name  it,  then." 

That  was  just  what  Chase  could  not  do.  He  turned 
in  his  mind  from  this  calling  to  that.  There  was  not 
one  which  did  not  need  a  particular  education;  there 
was  not  one  in  which  Stretton  was  likely  to  succeed. 
Soldiering  or  the  sea.  These  were  the  two  calhngs  for 
which  he  was  fitted.  From  the  sea  his  age  debarred 
him;  from  soldiering,  too,  except  in  this  one  way. 
No,  certainly,  Stretton  was  not  off  his  head. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  think  of  the  Foreign 
Legion?"  he  asked. 

Stretton  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  thought  of  most  other  courses  first,  and,  one  by 
one,  rejected  them  as  impossible.     This  plan  came  to 

143 


THE   TRUANTS 

me  last  of  all,  and  only  last  night.  We  were  passing 
a  light-ship.  In  a  way,  you  see,  we  were  within  sight 
of  home.  I  was  in  despair;  and  suddenly  the  idea 
flashed  upon  me,  like  the  revolving  blaze  from  the 
light-ship.  It  is  a  sound  one,  I  think.  At  all  events, 
it  is  the  only  one." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Chase,  slowly;  "  I  suppose  there  will 
be  chances,  for  there's  always  something  stirring  on 
the  Algerian  frontier." 

"There  or  in  Siam,"  said  Stretton. 

"What  arrangements  are  you  making  here?" 

"I  have  written  to  my  lawyers.  Millie  can  do  as 
she  pleases  with  the  income.  She  has  power,  too,  to 
sell  the  house  in  Berkeley  Square.  I  made  my  will, 
you  know,  before  I  left  England." 

Chase  nodded,  and  for  a  while  there  fell  a  silence 
upon  the  two  friends.  A  look  of  envy  crept  into  the 
face  of  the  clergyman  as  he  looked  at  Stretton.  He 
could  appreciate  a  motive  which  set  a  man  aiming 
high.  He  admired  the  persistence  with  which  Stret- 
ton nursed  it.  The  plan  it  had  prompted  might  be 
quixotic  and  quite  fruitless,  but,  at  all  events,  it  was 
definite;  and  a  definite  scheme  of  life,  based  upon  a 
simple  and  definite  motive,  was  not  so  common  but 
that  it  was  enviable.  Stretton  was  so  sure  of  its  wis- 
dom, too.  He  had  no  doubts.  He  sat  in  his  chair 
not  asking  for  approval,  not  caring  for  censure;  he 
had  made  up  his  mind.  The  image  of  Stretton,  in- 
deed, as  he  sat  in  that  chair  on  that  evening,  with  the 
firelight  playing  upon  his  face,  was  often  to  come  to 
Chase's  thoughts. 

"There  will  be  great  risks,"  he  said.  "Risks  of 
death,  of  trouble  in  the  battalion." 

"I  have  counted  them,"  Stretton  replied;  and  he 

144 


THE   TRUANTS 

leaned  forward  again,  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees. 
"  Oh  yes ;  there  will  be  great  risks !  But  there's  a  prize, 
too,  proportionate  to  the  risks.  Risks!  Every  one 
speaks  of  them,"  he  went  on,  with  a  laugh  of  impa- 
tience. "But  I  have  been  eight  weeks  on  the  Dogger- 
bank,  Chase,  and  I  know — yes,  I  know — how  to  esti- 
mate risks.  Out  there  men  risk  their  lives  daily  to  put 
a  few  boxes  of  fish  on  board  a  fish-cutter.  Take  the 
risk  half-heartedly  and  your  boat's  swamped  for  a  sure 
thing,  but  take  it  with  all  your  heart  and  there  are  the 
fish-boxes  to  your  credit.  Well,  Milhe  is  my  fish- 
boxes." 

He  ended  with  a  laugh,  and,  rising,  took  his  hat. 

"Shall  I  put  you  up  for  the  night?"  Chase  asked. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Stretton.  "I  have  got  a  bed  at 
a  hotel.  I  have  something  else  to  do  to-night;"  and 
a  smile,  rather  wistful  and  tender,  played  about  his 
lips.  "Good-bye!"  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  as 
Chase  took  it  he  went  on:  "I  am  looking  forward  to 
the  day  when  I  come  back.  My  word,  how  I  am 
looking  forward  to  it!  and  I  will  look  forward  each 
day  until  it  actually,  at  the  long  last,  comes.  It  will 
have  been  worth  waiting  for.  Chase — well  worth  wait- 
ing for,  both  to  Millie  and  to  me." 

With  that  he  went  away.  Chase  heard  him  close 
the  street-door  behind  him  and  his  footsteps  sound 
for  a  moment  or  two  on  the  pavement.  After  all,  he 
thought,  a  life  under  those  Algerian  skies,  a  life  in  the 
open  air,  of  activity — there  were  many  worse  things, 
even  though  it  should  prove  a  second  failure. 

Chase  stood  for  a  little  before  the  fire.     He  crossed 

slowly  over  to  that  cupboard  in  the  corner  at  which 

Stretton's    movement    in    the    chair   had    stayed    his 

hand.     Chase  looked  back  to  the  arm-chair,  as  though 

lo  145 


THE   TRUANTS 

he  half  expected  still  to  see  Stretton  sitting  there. 
Then  he  slowly  walked  back  to  the  fire  and  left  the 
cupboard  locked.  Stretton  had  gone,  but  he  had  left 
behind  him  memories  which  were  not  to  be  effaced — 
the  memory  of  a  great  motive  and  of  a  sturdy  deter- 
mination to  fulfil  it.  The  two  men  were  never  to 
meet  again;  but,  in  the  after-time,  more  than  once, 
of  an  evening,  Chase's  hand  was  stayed  upon  that  cup- 
board door.  More  than  once  he  looked  back  towards 
the  chair  as  if  he  expected  that  again  his  friend  was 
waiting  for  him  by  the  fire. 


XIV 

TONY   STRETTON    PAYS   A   VISIT    TO    BERKE- 
LEY  SQUARE 

WHILE  Tony  Stretton  was  thus  stating  the  prob- 
lem of  his  Hfe  to  Mr.  Chase  in  Stepney  Green, 
Lady  MilHngham  was  entertaining  her  friends  in  Berke- 
ley Square.  She  began  the  evening  with  a  dinner- 
party, at  which  Pamela  Mardale  and  John  Mudge  were 
present,  and  she  held  a  reception  afterwards.  Many 
people  came,  for  Frances  Millingham  was  popular. 
By  half-past  ten  the  rooms  were  already  overhot  and 
overcrowded,  and  Lady  Millingham  was  enjoying  her- 
self to  her  heart's  content.  Mr.  Mudge,  who  stood 
by  himself  at  the  end  of  a  big  drawing-room  close  to 
one  of  the  windows,  saw  the  tall  figure  of  Warrisden 
come  in  at  the  door  and  steadily  push  towards  Pa- 
mela. A  few  moments  later  M.  de  Mamay,  a  youthful 
attache  of  the  French  Embassy,  approached  Mr.  Mudge. 
M.  de  Marnay  wiped  his  forehead  and  looked  round 
the  crowded  room. 

"A  little  is  a  good  thing,"  said  he,  "but  too  much 
is  enough."  And  he  unlatched  and  pushed  open  the 
window.  As  he  spoke  Mr.  Mudge  saw  Gallon  appear 
in  the  doorway. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  laugh;  "too  much  is 
enough." 

Mudge  watched  Gallon's  movements  with  his  usual 
interest.     He    saw    him    pass,    a   supple    creature    of 

147 


THE   TRUANTS 

smiles  and  small  talk,  from  woman  to  woman.  How 
long  would  he  last  in  his  ignoble  career?  Mudge  won- 
dered. Would  he  marry  in  the  end  some  rich  and 
elderly  widow?  Or  would  the  crash  come,  and  par- 
ties know  Mr.  Lionel  Gallon  no  more?  Mudge  never 
saw  the  man  but  he  had  a  wish  that  he  might  get  a 
glimpse  of  him  alone  in  his  own  rooms,  with  the  smile 
dropped  from  his  face,  and  the  unpaid  bills  piled  upon 
his  mantel-shelf,  and  his  landlord  very  likely  clamor- 
ing for  the  rent.  He  imagined  the  face  grown  all  at 
once  haggard  and  tired  and  afraid — afraid  with  a  great 
fear  of  what  must  happen  in  a  few  years  at  the  latest, 
when,  with  middle-age  heavy  upon  his  shoulders,  he 
should  see  his  coevals  prospering  and  himself  bank- 
rupt of  his  stock-in-trade  of  good  looks,  and  without 
one  penny  to  rub  against  another.  No  presage  of 
mind  weighed  upon  Gallon  to-night,  however,  during 
his  short  stay  in  Frances  Millingham's  house.  For 
his  stay  was  short. 

As  the  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece  struck  eleven  his 
eyes  were  at  once  Hfted  to  the  clock-face,  and  almost 
at  once  he  moved  from  the  lady  to  whom  he  was 
talking  and  made  his  way  to  the  door. 

Mr.  Mudge  turned  back  to  the  window  and  pushed 
it  still  more  open.  It  was  a  clear  night  of  April,  and 
April  had  brought  with  it  the  warmth  of  summer. 
Mr.  Mudge  stood  at  the  open  window  facing  the  cool- 
ness and  the  quiet  of  the  square ;  and  thus  by  the  acci- 
dent of  an  overcrowded  room  he  became  the  witness  of 
a  little  episode  which  might  almost  have  figured  in 
some  by-gone  comedy  of  intrigue. 

Gallon  passed  through  the  line  of  carriages  in  the 
roadway  beneath,  and  crossed  the  comer  of  the  square 
to  the  pavement  on  the  right-hand  side.     When  he 

148 


THE   TRUANTS 

reached  the  pavement  he  walked  for  twenty  yards 
or  so  in  the  direction  of  Piccadilly  until  he  came  to  a 
large  and  gloomy  house.  There  a  few  shallow  steps 
led  from  the  pavement  to  the  front  door.  Gallon 
mounted  the  steps,  rang  the  bell,  and  was  admitted. 

There  were  a  few  lights  in  the  upper  windows  and 
on  the  ground  floor;  but  it  was  evident  that  there  was 
no  party  at  the  house.  Gallon  had  run  in  to  pay  a 
visit.  Mr.  Mudge,  who  had  watched  this,  as  it  were, 
the  first  scene  in  the  comedy,  distinctly  heard  the  door 
close,  and  the  sound  somehow  suggested  to  him  that 
the  time  had  come  for  him  to  go  home  to  bed.  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  exactly  a  quarter  past 
eleven  —  exactly,  in  a  word,  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  since  Tony  Stretton,  who  "had  something  else 
to  do,"  had  taken  his  leave  of  his  friend  Ghase  in 
Stepney. 

Mr.  Mudge  turned  from  the  window  to  make  his 
way  to  the  door,  and  came  face  to  face  with  Pamela 
and  Alan  Warrisden.  Pamela  spoke  to  him.  He  had 
never  yet  met  Warrisden,  and  he  was  now  introduced. 
All  three  stood  and  talked  together  for  a  few  minutes 
by  the  open  window.  Then  Mudge,  in  that  spirit  of 
curiosity  which  Gallon  always  provoked  in  him,  asked, 
abruptly, 

"  By-the-way,  Miss  Mardale,  do  you  happen  to  know 
who  hves  in  that  house?"  and  he  pointed  across  the 
corner  of  the  square  to  the  house  into  which  Gallon  had 
disappeared. 

Pamela  and  Warrisden  looked  quickly  at  each 
other.  Then  Pamela  turned  with  great  interest  to 
Mr.  Mudge. 

"Yes,  we  both  know,"  she  answered.  "Why  do 
you  ask?" 

149 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mudge;  'I  think  that  I 
should  like  to  know." 

The  glance  which  his  two  companions  had  exchanged, 
and  Pamela's  rather  eager  question,  had  quickened  his 
curiosity.  But  he  got  no  answer  for  a  few  moments. 
Both  Pamela  and  Warrisden  were  looking  out  towards 
the  house.  They  were  standing  side  by  side.  Mr. 
Mudge  had  an  intuition  that  the  same  thought  was 
passing  through  both  their  minds. 

"That  is  where  the  truants  lived  last  July,"  said 
Warrisden,  in  a  low  voice.  He  spoke  to  Pamela,  not 
to  Mr.  Mudge  at  all,  whose  existence  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  been  clean  forgotten. 

"Yes,"  Pamela  replied,  softly.  "The  dark  house, 
where  the  truants  lived  and  where" — she  looked  at 
Warrisden  and  smiled  with  a  great  friendliness — 
"where  the  new  road  began.  For  it  was  there  really. 
It's  from  the  steps  of  the  dark  house,  not  from  the 
three  poplars,  that  the  new  road  runs  out." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  said  Warrisden. 

And  again  both  were  silent. 

Mr.  Mudge  broke  in  upon  the  silence.  "I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  truants  lived  there,  and  that  the  new 
road  begins  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,"  he  said,  plain- 
tively; "but  neither  statement  adds  materially  to  my 
knowledge." 

Pamela  and  Warrisden  turned  to  him  and  laughed. 
It  was  true  that  they  had  for  a  moment  forgot- 
ten Mr.  Mudge.  The  memory  of  the  starlit  night, 
in  last  July,  when  from  this  balcony  they  had 
watched  the  truants  slip  down  the  steps  and  fur- 
tively call  a  cab  was  busy  in  their  thoughts.  From 
that  night  their  alliance  had  dated,  although  no  sus- 
picion   of    it    had    crossed   their   minds.      It    seemed 

150 


THE   TRUANTS 

strange  to  them  now  that  there  had  been  no  pre- 
monition. 

"Well,  who  lives  there?"  asked  Mudge. 

But  even  now  he  received  no  answer ;  for  Warrisden 
suddenly  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  startled  voice, 

"Look!"  and  with  an  instinctive  movement  he 
drew  back  into  the  room. 

A  man  was  standing  in  the  road  looking  up  at  the 
windows  of  the  dark  house.  His  face  could  not  be 
seen  under  the  shadow  of  his  hat.  Pamela  peered 
forward. 

"Do  you  think  it's  he?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  replied  Warrisden. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so!     I  hope  so!" 

"I  am  not  sure.  Wait!  Wait  and  look!"  said 
Warrisden. 

In  a  few  moments  the  man  moved.  He  crossed 
the  road  and  stepped  onto  the  pavement.  Again  he 
stopped,  again  he  looked  up  to  the  house;  then  he 
walked  slowly  on.  But  he  walked  northward,  that 
is,  towards  the  watchers  at  the  window. 

"There's  a  lamp-post,"  said  Warrisden;  "he  will 
come  within  the  light  of  it.     We  shall  know." 

And  the  next  moment  the  light  fell  white  and  clear 
upon  Tony  Stretton's  face. 

"He  has  come  back,"  exclaimed  Pamela,  joyfully. 

"Who?"  asked  Mr.  Mudge;  "who  has  come  back?" 

This  time  he  was  answered. 

"Why,  Tony  Stretton,  of  course,"  said  Pamela,  im- 
patiently. She  was  hardly  aware  of  Mr.  Mudge,  even 
while  she  answered  him ;  she  was  too  intent  upon  Tony 
Stretton  in  the  square  below.  She  did  not  therefore 
notice  that  Mudge  was  startled  by  her  reply.  She  did 
not  remark  the  anxiety  in  his  voice  as  he  went  on. 

151 


THE   TRUANTS 

"And  that  is  Stretton's  house?" 

"Yes." 

"And  his  wife,  Lady  Stretton,  is  she  in  London? 
Is  she  there — now?" 

Mr.  Mudge  spoke  with  an  excitement  of  manner 
which  at  any  other  time  must  have  caused  surprise. 
It  passed  now  unremarked;  for  Warrisden,  too,  had 
his  preoccupation.  He  was  neither  overjoyed,  Hke 
Pamela,  nor  troubled,  like  Mr.  Mudge;  but  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  square  he  was  perplexed. 

"Yes,"  replied  Pamela,  "Millie  Stretton  is  at  home. 
Could  anything  be  more  fortunate?" 

To  Mudge's  way  of  thinking,  notliing  could  be  more 
unfortunate.  Pamela  had  come  late  to  the  play;  Mr. 
Mudge,  on  the  other  hand,  had  seen  the  curtain  rise 
and  had  a  clearer  knowledge  of  the  plot's  develop- 
ment. The  husband  outside  the  house,  quite  unex- 
pected, quite  unsuspicious,  and  about  to  enter;  the 
wife  and  the  interloper  within:  here  were  the  formulas 
of  a  comedy  of  intrigue.  Only,  Mr.  Mudge  doubtfully 
wondered,  after  the  husband  had  entered  and  when  the 
great  scene  took  place,  would  the  decorous  accent  of 
the  comedy  be  maintained?  Nature  was,  after  all,  a 
violent  dramatist,  with  little  care  for  the  rules  and 
methods.  Of  one  thing,  at  all  events,  he  was  quite 
sure,  as  he  looked  at  Pamela:  she  would  find  no  amuse- 
ment in  the  climax.  There  was,  however,  to  be  an 
element  of  novelty,  which  Mr.  Mudge  had  not  fore- 
seen. 

"What  puzzles  me,"  said  Warrisden,  "is  that  Stret- 
ton does  not  go  in." 

Stretton  walked  up  to  the  corner  of  the  square, 
turned,  and  retraced  his  steps.  Again  he  approached 
the  steps  of  the  house.     "Now,"  thought  Mr.  Mudge, 

152 


THE   TRUANTS 

with  a  good  deal  of  suspense — "now  he  will  ascend 
them."  Pamela  had  the  same  conviction,  but  in  her 
case  hope  inspired  it.  Tony,  however,  merely  cast  a 
glance  upward  and  walked  on.  They  heard  his  foot- 
steps for  a  little  while  upon  the  pavement;  then  that 
sound  ceased. 

"  He  has  gone,"  cried  Pamela,  blankly;  "he  has  gone 
away  again." 

Mr.  Mudge  turned  to  her  very  seriously. 

"Believe  me,"  said  he,  "nothing  better  could  have 
happened." 

Tony,  in  fact,  had  never  had  a  thought  of  entering 
the  house.  Having  this  one  night  in  London,  he  had 
yielded  to  a  natural  impulse  to  revisit  again  the  spot 
where  he  and  Millie  had  lived — where  she  still  lived. 
The  bad  days  of  the  quarrels  and  the  indifference  and 
the  weariness  were  forgotten  by  him  to-night.  His 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  early  days  when  they 
played  truant,  and  truancy  was  good  fun.  The  es- 
capes from  the  house,  the  little  suppers  at  the  Savoy, 
the  stealthy  home-comings,  the  stumbling  up  the  stairs 
in  the  dark,  laughing  and  hushing  their  laughter — 
upon  these  incidents  his  mind  dwelt  wistfully,  yet  with 
a  great  pleasure  and  a  great  hopefulness.  Those  days 
were  gone,  but  in  others  to  come  all  that  was  good 
in  them  might  be  repeated.  The  good-humor,  the  in- 
timacy, the  sufficiency  of  the  two,  each  to  the  other, 
might  be  recovered  if  only  he  persisted.  To  return 
now,  to  go  in  at  the  door  and  say,  "I  have  come 
home,"  that  would  be  the  mistake  which  there  would 
be  no  retrieving.  He  was  at  the  cross-ways,  and  if 
he  took  the  wrong  road  life  would  not  give  him  the 
time  to  retrace  his  steps.  He  walked  away,  dreaming 
of  the  good  days  to  come. 

153 


THE   TRUANTS 

Meanwhile  Lionel  Gallon  was  talking  to  Millie  in 
that  little  sitting-room  which  had  once  been  hers  and 
Tony's. 

Millie  was  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  his  visit,  and 
when  he  was  shown  into  the  room  she  rose  at  once. 

"Something  has  happened?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  Gallon  replied.  "  I  was  at  Lady  Millingham's 
party.  I  suddenly  thought  of  you  sitting  here  alone. 
I  am  tired  besides,  and  overworked.  I  knew  it  would 
be  a  rest  for  me  if  I  could  see  you  and  talk  to  you  for  a 
few  minutes.     You  see,  I  am  selfish." 

Millie  smiled  at  him. 

"No,  kind,"  said  she. 

She  asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  added.  "How  does  your 
election  work  go  on?" 

Gallon  related  the  progress  of  his  campaign,  and 
with  an  air  of  making  particular  confidences.  He 
could  speak  without  any  reserve  to  her,  he  said.  He 
conveyed  the  impression  that  he  was  making  headway 
against  almost  insuperable  obstacles.  He  flattered  her, 
moreover,  by  a  suggestion  that  she  herself  was  a  great 
factor  in  his  successes.  The  mere  knowledge  that  she 
wished  him  well,  that  perhaps  once  or  twice  in  the 
day  she  gave  him  a  spare  thought,  helped  him  much 
more  than  she  could  imagine.  Millie  was  induced  to 
believe  that,  although  she  sat  quietly  in  London,  she 
was  thus  exercising  power  through  Gallon  in  his  con- 
stituency. 

"Of  course,  I  am  a  poor  man,"  said  Gallon.  "Pov- 
erty hampers  one." 

"Oh,  but  you  will  win,"  cried  Millie  Stretton,  with 
a  delighted  conviction;  "yes,  you  will  win." 

She  felt  strong,  confident — just,  in  a  word,  as  she 

154 


THE   TRUANTS 

had  felt  when  she  had  agreed  with  Tony  that  he  must 

go  away. 

"With  your  help,  yes,"  he  answered;  and  the  sound 
of  his  voice  violated  her  like  a  caress.  Millie  rose  from 
her  chair. 

At  once  Gallon  rose,  too,  and  altered  his  tone. 

"You  have  heard  from  Sir  Anthony  Stretton?"  he 
said.     "Tell  me  of  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard.     He  will  not  return  yet." 

There  came  a  light  into  Gallon's  eyes.  He  raised 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  hide  a  smile. 

"Few  men,"  he  said,  with  the  utmost  sympathy, 
"would  have  left  you  to  bear  these  last  weeks  alone." 

He  was  standing  just  behind  her,  speaking  over  her 
shoulder.  He  was  very  still,  the  house  was  very  silent. 
Millie  was  suddenly  aware  of  danger. 

"You  must  not  say  that,  Mr.  Gallon,"  she  said, 
rather  sharply. 

And  immediately  he  answered:  "I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  had  no  idea  my  sympathy  would  have  seemed  to  you 
an  insult." 

He  spoke  with  a  sudden  bitterness.  Milhcent  turned 
round  in  surprise.  She  saw  that  his  face  was  stern 
and  cold. 

"An  insult?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  troubled. 
"No,  you  and  I  are  friends." 

But  Gallon  would  have  none  of  these  excuses.  He 
had  come  to  the  house  deliberately  to  quarrel.  He 
had  a  great  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  quarrels,  given  the 
right  type  of  woman.  As  Mudge  had  told  Pamela, 
he  knew  the  tactics  of  the  particular  kind  of  warfare 
which  he  waged.  To  cause  a  woman  some  pain,  to 
make  her  think  with  regret  that  in  him  she  had  lost  a 
friend,  that  would  fix  him  in  her  thoughts.     So  Gallon 

155 


THE   TRUANTS 

quarrelled.  Millie  Stretton  could  not  say  a  word  but 
he  misinterpreted  it.  Every  sentence  he  cleverly 
twisted  into  an  offence. 

"I  will  say  good-bye,"  he  said,  at  length,  as  though 
he  had  reached  the  limits  of  endurance. 

Millie  Stretton  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes. 

"I  am  so  sorry  it  should  end  like  this,"  she  said, 
piteously.      "I  don't  know  why  it  has." 

Gallon  went  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  Then  he  let  himself  into  the  street. 
Millie  Stretton  would  miss  him,  he  felt  sure.  Her 
looks,  her  last  words  assured  him  of  that.  He  would 
wait  now  without  a  movement  towards  a  reconcilia- 
tion. That  must  come  from  her;  it  would  give  him 
in  her  eyes  a  reputation  for  strength.  He  knew  the 
value  of  that  reputation.  He  had  no  doubt,  besides, 
that  she  would  suggest  a  reconciliation.  Other  wom- 
en might  not,  but  MilHe — yes.  On  the  whole,  Mr.  Gal- 
lon was  very  well  content  with  his  night's  work.  He 
had  taken,  in  his  way  of  thinking,  a  long  step.  The 
square  was  empty  except  for  the  carriages  outside 
Lady  Millingham's  door.  Lionel  Gallon  walked  brisk- 
ly home. 


XV 
MR.  MUDGE   COMES   TO   THE   RESCUE 

LIONEL  GALLON'S  visit  to  Millie  Stretton  bore, 
_j  however,  consequences  which  had  not  at  all  en- 
tered into  his  calculations.  He  was  unaware  of  the 
watchers  at  Lady  Millingham's  window;  he  had  no 
knowledge  of  Pamela's  promise  to  Tony  Stretton;  no 
suspicion,  therefore,  that  she  was  now  passionately  re- 
solved to  keep  it  in  the  spirit  and  the  letter.  He  was 
even  without  a  thought  that  his  advances  towards  Mil- 
lie had  at  all  been  remarked  upon  or  their  motive  dis- 
covered. Ignorance  lulled  him  into  security.  But 
within  a  short  while  a  counter-plot  was  set  in  train. 

The  occasion  was  the  first  summer  meeting  on  New- 
market Heath.  Pamela  Mardale  seldom  missed  a  race 
meeting  at  Newmarket  during  the  spring  and  summer. 
There  were  the  horses,  in  the  first  place;  she  met  her 
friends  besides;  the  heath  itself,  with  its  broad  expanse 
and  its  downs,  had  for  her  eyes  a  beauty  of  its  own; 
and  in  addition  the  private  enclosure  was  separated 
by  the  width  of  the  course  from  the  crowd  and  clamor 
of  the  ring.  She  attended  this  particular  meeting, 
and  after  the  second  race  was  over  she  happened  to 
be  standing  amid  a  group  of  friends  within  the  grove 
of  trees  at  the  back  of  the  paddock.  Outside,  upon  the 
heath,  the  air  was  clear  and  bright;  a  light  wind  blew 
pleasantly.  Here  the  trees  were  in  bud,  and  the  sun- 
light, split   by  the  boughs,   dappled  with  light   and 

157 


THE   TRUANTS 

shadow  the  glossy  coats  of  the  horses  as  they  were  led 
in  and  out  among  the  boles.  A  mare  was  led  past 
Pamela,  and  one  of  her  friends  said: 

"Semiramis.     I  think  she  will  win  this  race." 

Pamela  looked  towards  the  mare,  and  saw,  just  be- 
yond her,  Mr.  Mudge.  He  was  alone,  as  he  usually 
was;  and  though  he  stopped  in  his  walk,  now  here, 
now  there,  to  exchange  a  word  with  some  acquaintance, 
he  moved  on  again,  invariably  alone.  Gradually  he 
drew  nearer  to  the  group  in  which  Pamela  was  stand- 
ing, and  his  face  brightened.  He  quickened  his  step; 
Pamela,  on  her  side,  advanced  rather  quickly  towards 
him. 

"You  are  here?"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "I  am 
glad,  though  I  did  not  think  to  meet  you." 

Mr.  Mudge,  to  tell  the  truth,  though  he  carried  a 
race-card  in  his  hand  and  glasses  slung  across  his 
shoulder,  had  the  disconsolate  air  of  a  man  conscious 
that  he  was  out  of  place.  He  answered  Pamela,  in- 
deed, almost  apologetically. 

"  It  is  better,  after  all,  to  be  here  than  in  London  on 
a  day  of  summer,"  he  said;  and  he  added,  with  a 
shrewd  glance  at  her,  "You  have  something  to  say  to 
me — a  question  to  ask." 

Pamela  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  have.     Let  us  go  out." 

They  walked  into  the  paddock  and  thence  through 
the  gate  into  the  enclosure.  The  enclosure  was  at 
this  moment  rather  empty.  Pamela  led  the  way  to 
the  rails  alongside  the  course,  and  chose  a  place  where 
they  were  out  of  the  hearing  of  any  by-stander. 

"You  remember  the  evening  at  Frances  Milling- 
ham's?"  she  asked.  She  had  not  seen  Mr.  Mudge 
since  that  date. 

158 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mr.  Mudge  replied  immediately. 

"Yes;  Sir  Anthony  Stretton  " — and  the  name  struck 
so  oddly  upon  Pamela's  ears  that,  serious  as  at  this 
moment  she  was,  she  laughed — "Sir  Anthony  Stret- 
ton turned  away  from  the  steps  of  his  house.  You 
were  distressed.  Miss  Mardale;  I,  on  the  contrary,  said 
that  nothing  better  could  have  happened.  You  wish 
to  ask  me  why  I  said  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pamela,  "I  am  very  anxious  to  know. 
Millie  is  my  friend.  I  am,  in  a  sort  of  way,  too,  re- 
sponsible for  her;"  and,  as  Mr.  Mudge  looked  surprised, 
she  repeated  the  word — "Yes,  responsible.  And  I 
am  rather  troubled."  She  spoke  with  a  little  hesita- 
tion. There  was  a  frown  upon  her  forehead,  a  look 
of  perplexity  in  her  dark  eyes.  She  was  reluctant  to 
admit  that  her  friend  was  in  any  danger  or  needed 
any  protection  from  her  own  weakness.  The  free- 
masonry of  her  sex  impelled  her  to  silence.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  was  at  her  wits'  end  what  to  do.  And 
she  had  confidence  in  her  companion's  discretion;  she 
determined  to  speak  frankly. 

"It  is  not  only  your  remark  which  troubles  me," 
she  said,  "but  I  called  on  Millie  the  next  afternoon." 

"Oh,  you  did?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mudge. 

"Yes;  I  asked  after  Tony.  Millie  had  not  seen  him 
and  did  not  expect  him.  She  showed  me  letters  from 
his  solicitors  empowering  her  to  do  what  she  liked  with 
the  house  and  income,  and  a  short  letter  from  Tony 
himself,  written  on  the  Perseverance,  to  the  same  effect." 

She  did  not  explain  to  Mr.  Mudge  what  the  Per- 
severance was,  and  he  asked  no  questions. 

"I  told  Millie,"  she  continued,  "that  Tony  had  re- 
turned, but  she  refused  to  believe  it.  I  told  her  when 
and  where  I  had  seen  him." 


THE    TRUANTS 

"You  did  that?"  said  Mr.  Mudge.  "Wait  a  mo- 
ment." He  saw  and  understood  Pamela's  reluctance 
to  speak.  He  determined  to  help  her  out.  "Let  me 
describe  to  you  what  followed.  She  stared  blankly 
at  you  and  asked  you  to  repeat  what  you  had 
said?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Millie,  in  surprise;  "that  is  just  what 
she  did." 

"And  when  you  had  repeated  it  she  turned  a  little 
pale,  perhaps  was  disconcerted,  perhaps  a  little — 
afraid." 

"Yes,  it  is  that  which  troubles  me,"  Pamela  cried, 
in  a  low  voice.  "She  was  afraid.  I  would  have  given 
much  to  have  doubted  it.  I  could  not;  her  eyes  be- 
trayed it,  her  face,  her  whole  attitude.  She  was 
afraid." 

Mr.  Mudge  nodded  his  head  and  went  quietly  on. 

"And  when  she  had  recovered  a  little  from  her  fear 
she  questioned  you  closely  as  to  the  time  when  you 
first  saw  Stretton  outside  the  house  and  the  time  when 
he  went  away." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  certitude  that  he  might  have 
been  present  at  the  interview. 

"I  told  her  that  it  was  some  little  time  after  eleven 
when  he  came,  and  that  he  only  stayed  a  few  minutes," 
answered  Pamela. 

"And  at  that,"  rejoined  Mr.  Mudge,  "Lady  Stret- 
ton's  anxiety  diminished." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,  too,"  Pamela  admitted;  and  she 
turned  her  face  to  him  with  its  troubled  appeal.  "Why 
was  she  afraid  ?  For,  since  you  have  guessed  that  she 
was,  you  must  know  the  reason  which  she  had  for  fear. 
Why  was  it  so  fortunate  that  Tony  Stretton  did  not 
mount  the  steps  of  the  house  and  ring  the  bell?" 

i6o 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mr.    Mudge   answered   her  immediately,   and   very 

quietly. 

"Because  Lionel  Gallon  was  inside  the  house." 

A  great  sympathy  made  his  voice  gentle — sympathy 
for  Pamela.  None  the  less  the  words  hurt  her  cruelly. 
She  turned  away  from  him  so  that  he  might  not  see 
her  face,  and  stood  gazing  down  the  course  through  a 
mist.  Bitter  disappointment  was  hers  at  that  mo- 
ment. She  was  by  nature  a  partisan.  The  thing 
which  she  did  crept  closer  to  her  heart  by  the  mere 
act  of  doing  it.  She  knew  it,  and  it  was  just  her 
knowledge  which  had  so  long  kept  her  to  inaction. 
Now  her  thoughts  were  passionately  set  on  saving 
Millie,  and  here  came  news  to  her  which  brought  her 
to  the  brink  of  despair.  She  blamed  Tony.  "Why 
did  he  ever  go  away?"  she  cried.  "Why,  when  he 
had  come  back,  did  he  not  stay?"  And  at  once  she 
saw  the  futility  of  her  outcry.  Tony,  Millie,  Lionel 
Gallon  —  what  was  the  use  of  blaming  them?  They 
acted  as  their  characters  impelled  them.  She  had  to 
do  her  best  to  remedy  the  evil  which  the  clash  of  these 
three  characters  had  produced.  "What  can  be  done  ?" 
she  asked  of  herself.  There  was  one  course  open  cer- 
tainly. She  could  summon  Warrisden  again,  send 
him  out  a  second  time  in  search  of  Tony  Stretton,  and 
make  him  the  bearer,  not  of  an  excuse,  but  of  the  whole 
truth.  Only  she  dreaded  the  outcome;  she  shrank 
from  telling  Tony  the  truth,  fearing  that  he  would 
exaggerate  it.  "Gan  nothing  be  done?"  she  asked 
again,  in  despair,  and  this  time  she  asked  the  question 
aloud,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Mudge. 

Mudge  had  been  quietly  waiting  for  it. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "something  can  be  done.  I 
should  not  have  told  you,  Miss  Mardale,  what  I  knew 
n  i6i 


THE    TRUANTS 

unless  I  had  already  hit  upon  a  means  to  avert  the 
peril;  for  I  am  aware  how  much  my  news  must  grieve 
you." 

Pamela  looked  at  Mr.  Mudge  in  surprise.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  her  at  all  that  he  could  have  solved 
the  problem. 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  leave  the  whole  trouble  in  my  hands  for 
a  few  days." 

Pamela  was  silent  for  a  little  while;  then  she  an- 
swered, doubtfully, 

"It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  offer  me  your  help." 

Mr,  Mudge  shook  his  head  at  Pamela  with  a  certain 
sadness. 

"There's  no  kindness  in  it  at  all,"  he  said;  "but  I 
quite  understand  your  hesitation,  Miss  Mardale.  You 
were  surprised  that  I  should  offer  you  help,  just  as 
you  were  surprised  to  see  me  here.  Although  I  move 
in  your  world  I  am  not  of  it.  Its  traditions,  its  in- 
stincts, even  its  methods  of  thought — to  all  of  these 
I  am  a  stranger.  I  am  just  a  passing  visitor  who,  for 
the  time  of  his  stay,  is  made  an  honorary  member  of 
your  club.  He  meets  with  every  civility,  every  kind- 
ness; but  he  is  not  inside,  so  that  when  he  suddenly 
comes  forward  and  offers  you  help  in  a  matter  where 
other  members  of  your  club  are  concerned  you  natural- 
ly pause," 

Pamela  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  but  Mr.  Mudge 
gently  insisted: 

"Let  me  finish.  I  want  you  to  understand  equally 
well  why  I  offer  you  help  which  may  very  likely  seem 
to  you  an  impertinence." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Pamela;  "on  the  contrary,  I 
am  very  grateful." 

162 


THE    TRUANTS 

Others  were  approaching  the  spot  where  they  stood. 
They  turned  and  walked  slowly  over  the  grass  away 
from  the  paddock. 

"There  is  no  need  that  you  should  be,"  Mudge  con- 
tinued; "you  will  see  that,  if  you  listen."  And  in  a 
few  words  he  told  her  at  last  something  of  his  own 
career.  "I  sprang  from  a  Deptford  gutter,  with  one 
thought — to  get  on,  and  get  on,  and  get  on.  I  moved 
from  Deptford  to  Peckham.  There  I  married.  I 
moved  from  Peckham  to  a  residential  suburb  in  the 
southwest.  There  my  wife  died.  Looking  back  now, 
I  am  afraid  that  in  my  haste  to  get  on  I  rather  neg- 
lected my  wife's  happiness.  You  see,  I  am  frank  with 
you.  From  the  residential  suburb  I  moved  into  the 
Cromwell  Road,  from  the  Cromwell  Road  to  Grosvenor 
Square.  I  do  not  think  that  I  was  just  a  snob;  but  I 
wanted  to  have  the  very  best  of  what  was  going. 
There  is  a  difference.  A  few  years  ago  I  found  my- 
self at  the  point  which  I  had  aimed  to  reach,  and,  as  I 
have  told  you,  it  is  a  position  of  many  acquaintances 
and  much  loneliness.  You  might  say  that  I  could  give 
it  up  and  retire  into  the  country.  But  I  have  too 
many  undertakings  on  my  hands;  besides,  I  am  too 
tired  to  start  again,  so  I  remain.  But  I  think  you  will 
understand  that  it  will  be  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  help 
you.  I  have  not  so  many  friends  that  I  can  afford  to 
lose  the  opportunity  of  doing  one  of  them  a  service." 

Pamela  heard  him  to  the  end  without  any  inter- 
ruption; but  when  he  had  finished  she  said,  with  a 
smile: 

"You  are  quite  wrong  about  the  reason  for  my 
hesitation.  I  asked  a  friend  of  mine  a  few  weeks  ago 
to  help  me,  and  he  gave  me  the  best  of  help  at  once. 
Even  the  best  of  help  fails  at  times,  and  my  friend 

163 


THE   TRUANTS 

did.  I  was  wondering  merely  whether  it  would  not 
be  a  little  disloyal  to  him  if  I  now  accepted  yours,  for 
I  know  he  would  be  grieved  if  I  went  to  any  one  but 
him." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Mudge;  "but  I  think  that  I  can 
give  you  help  which  no  one  else  can." 

It  was  clear  from  his  quiet  persistence  that  he  had 
a  definite  plan.     Pamela  stopped  and  faced  him. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "I  leave  the  whole  matter 
for  a  little  while  in  your  hands." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Mudge;  and  he  looked  up 
towards  the  course.  "There  are  the  horses  going 
down." 

A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  Pamela.  She  opened 
the  purse  she  carried  on  her  wrist,  and  took  out  a 
couple  of  pounds. 

"Put  this  on  Semiramis  for  me,  please,"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh.     "  Be  quick,  if  you  will,  and  come  back." 

Though  she  laughed  she  was  still  most  urgent  he 
should  go.  Mr.  Mudge  hurried  across  the  course,  made 
the  bet,  and  returned.  Pamela  watched  the  race  with 
an  eagerness  which  astonished  Mr.  Mudge,  so  com- 
pletely did  she  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  that  had 
troubled  her  a  minute  ago.  But  he  did  not  under- 
stand Pamela.  She  was,  after  her  custom,  seeking 
for  a  sign,  and  when  Semiramis  galloped  in  a  winner 
by  a  neck,  she  turned  with  a  hopeful  smile  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"We  shall  win,  too." 

"  I  think  so,"  Mudge  repHed,  and  he  laughed.  "  Do 
you  know  what  I  think  of  Lionel  Gallon,  Miss  Mardale? 
The  words  are  not  mine,  but  the  sentiment  is  unex- 
ceptionable. A  little  may  be  a  good  thing,  but  too 
much  is  enough." 

164 


XVI 
THE   FOREIGN   LEGION 

IT  was  mid-day  at  Sidi-Bel-Abbes  in  Algeria.  Two 
French  officers  were  sitting  in  front  of  a  cafe  at  the 
wide  cross-roads  in  the  centre  of  the  town.  One  of 
them  was  Captain  Tavernay,  a  man  of  forty-seven, 
tall,  thin,  with  a  brown  face  worn  and  tired  with  the 
campaigns  of  thirty  years,  the  other  a  young  lieuten- 
ant, M.  Laurent,  fresh  and  pink,  who  seemed  to  have 
been  passed  out  but  yesterday  from  the  school  of  St.- 
Cyr.  Captain  Tavernay  picked  up  his  cap  from  the 
iron  table  in  front  of  him  and  settled  it  upon  his  griz- 
zled head.  Outside  the  town  trees  clustered  thickly, 
farms  were  half -hidden  among  groves  of  fig-trees  and 
hedges  of  aloes.  Here  there  was  no  fohage.  The 
streets  were  very  quiet,  the  sunlight  lay  in  dazzling 
pools  of  gold  upon  the  sand  of  the  roads,  the  white 
houses  glittered  under  a  blue,  cloudless  sky.  In  front 
of  the  two  officers,  some  miles  away,  the  bare  cone  of 
Jebel-Tessalah  sprang  upward  from  a  range  of  hills 
dominating  the  town,  and  a  speck  of  white  upon  its 
shoulder  showed  where  a  village  perched.  Captain 
Tavernay  sat  looking  out  towards  the  mountain  with 
the  lids  half -closed  upon  his  eyes.  Then  he  rose  de- 
liberately from  his  chair. 

"If  we  walk  to  the  station,"  he  said,  "we  shall  just 
meet  the  train  from  Oran.  A  batch  of  thirty  recruits  is 
coming  in  by  it.     Let  us  walk  to  the  station,  Laurent." 

165 


THE    TRUANTS 

Lieutenant  Laurent  dropped  the  end  of  his  cigarette 
onto  the  ground,  and  stood  up  reluctantly. 

"As  you  will,  captain,"  he  answered.  "But  we 
should  see  the  animals  soon  enough  at  the  barracks." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  voice  which  was  almost, 
and  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  was,  quite  con- 
temptuous. The  day  was  hot,  and  Lieutenant  Lau- 
rent unwilling  to  move  from  his  coffee  and  the  shade 
into  that  burning  sunlight.  Captain  Tavernay  gazed 
mildly  at  his  youthful  junior.  Long  experience  had 
taught  him  to  leave  much  to  time  and  little  to  argu- 
ment. For  himself  he  loved  his  legionaries.  He  had 
a  smile  of  indulgence  for  their  faults  even  ~while  he 
punished  them;  and  though  his  face  seldom  showed 
the  smile  and  his  punishments  were  not  unjustly  light, 
the  culprits  none  the  less  knew  it  was  there  hidden 
somewhere  close  to  his  heart.  But  then  he  had  seen 
his  men  in  action,  and  Lieutenant  Laurent  had  not. 
That  made  all  the  difference.  The  Foreign  Legion 
certainly  did  not  show  at  its  best  in  a  cantonment. 
Among  that  motley  assemblage  —  twelve  thousand 
men  distinct  in  nationality  as  in  character,  flung  to- 
gether pell-mell,  negroes  and  whites,  criminals,  ad- 
venturers, silent  unknown  men  haunted  by  memories 
of  other  days  or  tortured  by  remorse — a  garrison  town 
with  its  monotony  and  its  absinthe  played  havoc.  An 
Abyssinian  rubbed  shoulders  in  the  ranks  with  a  scholar 
who  spoke  nine  languages,  a  tenor  from  the  Theatre  de 
la  Monnaie  at  Brussels  with  an  unfrocked  priest.  Often 
enough  Captain  Tavernay  had  seen  one  of  his  legion- 
aries sitting  alone  hour  after  hour  at  his  little  table 
outside  the  caf^,  steadily  drinking  glass  after  glass 
of  absinthe,  rising  mechanically  to  salute  his  officer, 
and    sinking   back   among   his   impenetrable   secrets. 

i66 


THE   TRUANTS 

Was  he  dreaming  of  the  other  days,  the  laughter  and 
the  flowers,  the  white  shoulders  of  women?  Was  he 
again  placing  that  last  stake  upon  the  red  which  had 
sent  him  straight  from  the  table  to  the  nearest  French 
depot  ?  Was  he  living  again  some  tragic  crisis  of  love 
in  which  all  at  once  he  had  learned  that  he  had  been 
befooled  and  derided  ?  Captain  Tavernay  never  pass- 
ed such  a  man  but  he  longed  to  sit  down  by  his  side 
and  say:  "My  friend,  share  your  secret  with  me,  so 
it  will  be  easier  to  bear."  But  the  etiquette  of  the 
Foreign  Legion  forbade.  Captain  Tavernay  merely 
returned  the  salute  and  passed  on,  knowing  that  very 
likely  his  legionary  would  pass  the  night  in  the  guard- 
room, and  the  next  week  in  the  cells.  No,  the  town 
of  Sidi-Bel-Abb^s  was  not  the  place  wherein  to  learn 
the  mettle  of  the  legionary.  Away  to  the  south  there, 
beyond  the  forest  of  trees  on  the  horizon's  line,  things 
were  different.  Let  Lieutenant  Laurent  see  them  in 
their  bivouacs  at  night  under  the  stars,  and  witness 
their  prowess  under  arms,  ces  animaux  would  soon 
become  mes  enfants. 

Therefore  he  answered  Lieutenant  Laurent  in  the 
mildest  voice. 

"  We  shall  see  them  at  the  barracks,  it  is  true.  But 
you  are  wrong  when  you  say  that  it  will  be  soon 
enough.  At  the  barracks  they  will  be  prepared  for 
us;  they  will  have  their  little  stories  ready  for  us;  they 
will  be  armed  with  discretion.  But  let  us  see  them 
descend  from  the  train;  let  us  watch  their  first  look 
round  at  their  new  home,  their  new  fatherland.  We 
may  learn  a  little,  and  if  it  is  ever  so  little  it  will  help 
us  to  know  them  the  better  afterwards.  And,  at  the 
worst,  it  will  be  an  amusing  little  exercise  in  psy- 
chology." 

167 


THE    TRUANTS 

They  walked  away  from  the  cafe  and  strolled  down 
the  Rue  de  Mascara  under  the  shady  avenue  of  trees, 
Tavernay  moving  with  a  long,  indolent  stride,  which 
covered  a  deal  of  ground  with  a  surprising  rapidity, 
Laurent  fidgeting  discontentedly  at  his  side.  M. 
Laurent  was  beginning,  in  fact,  to  regret  the  hurry  with 
which  he  had  sought  a  commision  in  the  Foreign 
Legion.  M.  Laurent  had,  a  few  months  ago,  in  Paris, 
imagined  himself  to  be  irrevocably  in  love  with  the 
wife  of  one  of  his  friends,  a  lady  at  once  beautiful  and 
mature;  M.  Laurent  had  declared  his  passion  upon  a 
suitable  occasion;  M.  Laurent  had  been  snubbed  for 
his  pains;  M.  Laurent  in  a  fit  of  pique  had  sought  the 
consolation  of  another  climate  and  foreign  service; 
and  M.  Laurent  was  now  quickly  reahzing  that  he 
was  not  nearly  so  heart-broken  as  he  had  fancied 
himself  to  be.  Even  now  while  he  walked  to  the 
station  he  was  thinking  that,  after  all,  Paris  was  en- 
durable, even  though  one  particular  woman  could  not 
refrain  from  a  little  smile  of  amusement  when  he 
crossed  her  path. 

Captain  Tavernay  had  timed  their  walk  accurately. 
For  as  they  reached  the  station  the  train  was  signalled. 

"Let  us  stand  here,  behind  these  cases,"  said  Tav- 
ernay.    "We  shall  see  and  not  be  seen." 

In  a  few  moments  the  train  moved  slowly  in  and 
■  stopped.  From  the  farthermost  carriage  the  detach- 
ment descended,  and.  following  a  sous-officier  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Legion,  walked  towards  the  cases  be- 
hind which  Tavernay  and  his  companion  were  con- 
cealed. In  front  came  two  youths,  fair  of  complexion 
and  of  hair,  dressed  neatly,  well  shod,  who  walked  with 
a  timidity  of  manner  as  though  they  expected  to  be 
questioned  and  sent  packing. 

i68 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Who  can  they  be?"  asked  Laurent.  "They  are 
boys." 

"Yet  they  will  give  their  age  as  eighteen,"  repHed 
Tavernay,  and  his  voice  trembled  ever  so  slightly. 
"And  we  shall  ask  no  questions." 

"But  they  bear  no  marks  of  misery.  They  are  not 
poor.     Where  can  they  come  from  ?"  Laurent  repeated. 

"I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  Tavernay.  He  was 
much  moved.  He  spoke  with  a  deep  note  of  reverence. 
"They  come  from  Alsace  or  Lorraine.  We  get  many 
such.  They  will  not  serve  Germany.  At  all  costs 
they  will  serve  France." 

Lieutenant  Laurent  was  humbled.  Here  was  a  high- 
er motive  than  pique,  here  was  a  devotion  which  would 
not  so  quickly  tire  of  discipline  and  service.  He  gazed 
with  a  momentary  feeling  of  envy  at  these  two  youths 
who  insisted  at  so  high  a  price  on  being  his  compa- 
triots. 

"You  see,"  said  Tavernay,  with  a  smile,  "it  was 
worth  while  to  come  to  the  station  and  see  the  re- 
cruits arrive  even  on  so  hot  a  day  as  this." 

"Yes,"  replied  Laurent;  and  then,  "Look!" 

Following  the  two  youths  walked  a  man,  tall  and 
powerful,  with  the  long,  loose  stride  of  one  well  versed 
in  sports.  He  held  his  head  erect  and  walked  defiant- 
ly, daring  you  to  question  him.  His  hands  were  long 
and  slender,  well  kept,  unused  to  labor,  his  face 
aquiline  and  refined.  He  looked  about  thirty-five 
years  old.  He  wore  a  light  overcoat  of  fine  material 
which  hung  open ,  and  underneath  the  overcoat  he  was 
attired  in  evening  dress.  It  was  his  dress  which  had 
riveted  Laurent's  attention;  and  certainly  nothing 
could  have  seemed  more  bizarre,  more  strangely  out  of 
place.     The  hot  African  sun  poured  down  out  of  a 

169 


THE   TRUANTS 

cloudless  sky;  and  a  new  recruit  for  the  Foreign  Legion 
stepped  out  of  a  railway-carriage  as  though  he  had 
come  straight  from  a  ballroom.  What  sudden  disaster 
could  have  overtaken  him?  In  what  tragedy  had  he 
borne  a  part?  Even  Laurent's  imagination  was  stim- 
ulated into  speculation.  As  the  man  passed  him, 
Laurent  saw  that  his  tie  was  creased  and  dusty,  his 
shirt-front  rumpled  and  soiled.  That  must  needs  have 
been.  At  some  early  hour  on  a  spring  morning  some 
four  or  five  days  ago  this  man  must  have  rushed  into 
the  guard-room  of  a  barrack-square  in  some  town  of 
France.     Laurent  turned  to  Tavernay  eagerly. 

"What  do  you  make  of  him?" 

Tavernay  shrugged  his  shoulders, 

"A  man  of  fashion  who  has  made  a  fool  of  himself. 
They  make  good  soldiers  as  a  rule." 

"But  he  will  repent." 

"He  has  already  had  the  time  and  he  has  not. 
There  is  no  escort  for  recruits  until  they  reach  Mar- 
seilles. Suppose  that  he  enlisted  in  Paris.  He  is 
given  the  fare.  At  any  station  between  Paris  and 
Marseilles  he  could  have  got  out  and  returned." 

The  man  in  evening  dress  walked  on.  There  were 
dark  shadows  under  his  eyes,  the  eyes  themselves  were 
sombre  and  alert. 

"We  shall  know  something  of  him  soon,"  said  Tav- 
ernay. He  watched  his  recruit  with  so  composed  an 
air  that  Laurent  cried  out: 

"Can  nothing  astonish  you?" 

"Very  little,"  answered  Tavernay,  phlegmatically. 
"Listen,  my  friend.  One  day  some  years  ago  a  cap- 
tain of  Hussars  landed  at  Oran.  He  came  to  Bel- 
Abbes  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  me.  He  stayed 
with  me.     He  expressed  a  wish  to  see  my  men  upon 

170 


THE   TRUANTS 

parade.  I  turned  them  out.  He  came  to  the  parade- 
ground  and  inspected  them.  As  he  passed  along  the 
ranks  he  suddenly  stopped  in  front  of  an  old  soldier 
with  fifteen  years'  service  in  the  Legion,  much  of 
which  fifteen  years  had  been  passed  in  the  cells.  The 
old  soldier  was  a  drunkard — oh,  but  a  confirmed 
drunkard.  Well,  in  front  of  this  man  my  young  cap- 
tain with  the  curled  mustaches  stopped — stopped  and 
turned  very  pale,  but  he  did  not  speak.  My  soldier 
looked  at  him  respectfully,  and  the  captain  continued 
his  inspection.  Well,  they  were  father  and  son — that 
is  all.  Why  should  anything  astonish  me?"  and  Cap- 
tain Tavernay  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

The  match,  however,  attracted  attention  to  the 
presence  of  the  officers.  Four  men  who  marched, 
keeping  time  with  their  feet  and  holding  their  hands 
stiffly  at  their  sides,  saw  the  flame  and  remarked  the 
uniforms.     Their  hands  rose  at  once  to  the  salute. 

"Ah!  German  deserters,"  said  Tavernay.  "They 
fight  well." 

Others  followed — men  in  rags  and  out  of  shoe-leath- 
er; outcasts  and  fugitives;  and  behind  them  came 
one  who  was  different.  He  was  tall  and  well  knit, 
with  a  frank,  open  face,  not  particularly  intellectual; 
on  the  other  hand,  not  irretrievably  stupid.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  double-breasted  blue  serge  suit,  and  as 
he  walked  he  now  and  then  gave  a  twist  to  his  fair 
mustache,  as  though  he  were  uneasy  and  embarrassed. 
Captain  Tavernay  ran  his  eyes  over  him  with  the  look 
of  a  connoisseur. 

"Aha!"  said  he,  with  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction.  "The 
true  legionary!  Hard,  finely  trained;  he  has  done 
work,  too.  Yes!  You  see,  Laurent,  he  is  a  little 
ashamed,  a  little  self-conscious.     He  feels  that  he  is 

171 


THE   TRUANTS 

looking   a   fool.     I    wonder  what   nationality  he   will 
claim." 

"He  comes  from  the  North,"  said  Laurent.  "Pos- 
sibly from  Normandy." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  he  is,"  returned  Tavernay.  "I 
am  wondering  only  what  he  will  claim  to  be.  Let  us 
go  outside  and  see." 

Tavernay  led  the  way  to  the  platform.  Outside,  in 
front  of  the  station,  the  sous-officier  marshalled  his 
men  in  a  line.  They  looked  a  strange  body  of  men 
as  they  stood  there,  blinking  in  the  strong  sunlight. 
The  man  in  the  ruffled  silk  hat  and  the  dress  suit  toed 
the  line  beside  a  bundle  of  rags,  the  German  deserters 
rubbed  elbows  with  the  "true  legionary"  in  the  blue 
serge.  Those  thirty  men  represented  types  of  almost 
all  the  social  grades,  and  to  a  man  they  were  seeking 
the  shelter  of  anonymity  in  that  monastery  of  action — 
the  Foreign  Legion. 

"Answer  to  your  names,"  said  the  sous-officier,  and 
from  a  paper  in  his  hand  he  began  to  read.  The  an- 
swers came  back,  ludicrous  in  their  untruth.  A 
French  name  would  be  called: 

"Montaubon." 

And  a  German  voice  replied : 

"Present."^ 

"Ohlsen,"  cried  the  sous-officier,  and  no  answer  was 
given.  "Ohlsen,"  he  repeated,  sharply.  "Is  not 
Ohlsen  here?" 

And  suddenly  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  serge  suit 
flushed,  and  he  answered,  hurriedly: 

"Present." 

Even  the  sous-officier  burst  into  a  laugh.  The  rea- 
son for  the  pause  was  too  obvious;  "Ohlsen"  had  for- 
gotten that  Ohlsen  was  now  his  name. 

172 


THE   TRUANTS 

"My  lad,  you  must  keep  your  ears  open,"  said  the 
sous-officier.    "Now,  attention.    Fours  right.    March!" 

And  the  detachment  marched  off  towards  the  bar- 
racks. 

"Ohlsen,"  said  Tavernay,  and  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.     "Well,  what  does  it  matter?     Come!" 

"Ohlsen"  was  Tony  Stretton,  and  all  the  way  along 
the  Rue  Daya  to  the  barracks  he  was  longing  for  the 
moment  when  he  would  put  on  the  uniform  and  cease 
to  figure  ridiculously  in  this  grotesque  procession. 
None  the  less  he  had  to  wait  with  the  others  drawn 
up  in  the  barrack  square  until  Captain  Tavernay  re- 
turned. The  captain  went  to  his  office,  and  thither 
the  recruits  were  marched.  One  by  one  they  entered 
in  at  the  door,  answered  his  questions,  and  were  sent 
off  to  the  regimental  tailor.  Tony  Stretton  was  the 
last. 

"Name?"  asked  Tavernay. 

"Hans  Ohlsen." 

"Town  of  enlistment?" 

"Marseilles." 

Tavernay  compared  the  answers  with  some  writing 
on  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"Yes,  Marseilles.  Passed  by  Dr.  Paul  as  sound  of 
body.     Yes,"  and  he  resumed  his  questions. 

"Nationality?" 

"Swede." 

Captain  Tavernay  had  a  smattering  of  most  lan- 
guages, and  he  was  greatly  inclined  to  try  his  new  re- 
cruit with  a  few  questions  in  the  Swedish  tongue. 
But  the  etiquette  of  the  Legion  forbade.  He  went 
on  without  a  smile. 

"Age?" 

"Thirty." 

173 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Vocation?" 

"Fisherman." 

Captain  Tavernay  looked  up.  This  time  he  could 
not  help  smiling. 

"Well,  it  is  as  good  as  any  other,"  said  he,  and 
suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of  cries,  and  three  soldiers 
burst  out  of  a  narrow  entrance  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  parade-ground  and  came  running  across  the  square 
to  the  captain's  quarters.  Both  Tavernay  and  Stret- 
ton  looked  through  the  door.  There  was  not  a  tree  in 
that  great  square;  the  sunlight  poured  down  upon  the 
bare  ground  with  a  blinding  fierceness;  all  the  recruits 
but  Stretton  had  marched  off;  a  second  ago  it  had 
been  quite  empty  and  very  silent.  Now  these  three 
men  were  hurrying  across  it  shouting,  gesticulating 
with  their  hands.  Stretton  looked  at  them  with  sur- 
prise. Then  he  noticed  that  one  of  them,  the  man 
running  in  the  middle  and  a  little  ahead  of  the  others, 
carried  a  revolver  in  his  hand  and  brandished  it. 
Moreover,  from  the  look  of  his  inflamed  face,  he  was 
shouting  threats;  the  others  were  undoubtedly  shout- 
ing warnings.  Scraps  of  their  warnings  came  to 
Stretton's  ears.  "Mon  capitaine!"  "II  veut  vous 
tuer!"  "Rentrez!"  They  were  straining  every  mus- 
cle to  catch  the  threatening  soldier  up. 

Stretton  strode  to  the  door,  and  a  voice  behind  him 
cried : 

"Halt!" 

It  was  Tavernay  who  was  speaking. 

"But  he  is  already  half-way  across  the  square." 

"Halt!" 

And  there  was  no  disobeying  the  command.  Cap- 
tain Tavernay  walked  to  the  door. 

"A  Spanish  corporal  whom  yesterday  I  degraded 

174 


THE   TRUANTS 

to  the  ranks,"  said  he.  "Half  a  pint  of  aguardiente 
and  here's  the  result." 

Captain  Tavernay  stepped  out  of  the  door  and  lei- 
surely advanced  towards  the  running  men.  He  gave 
an  order,  he  raised  his  hand,  and  the  two  soldiers  who 
warned  him  fell  back  and  halted.  Certainly  Captain 
Tavernay  was  accustomed  to  obedience.  The  Span- 
ish ex-corporal  ran  on  alone,  straight  towards  Taver- 
nay, but  as  he  ran,  as  he  saw  the  officer  standing  there 
alone,  quietly  waiting  his  onslaught,  his  threats  weak- 
ened, his  pace  slackened.  He  came  to  a  stop  in  front 
of  Tavernay. 

"I  must  kill  you,"  he  cried,  waving  his  revolver. 

"You  shall  kill  me  from  behind,  then,"  said  Tav- 
ernay, calmly.  "Follow  me!"  And  he  turned  round 
and  with  the  same  leisurely  deliberation  walked  back 
to  his  room.  The  ex-corporal  hesitated  and — obeyed. 
He  followed  Captain  Tavernay  into  the  room  where 
Stretton  stood. 

"Place  your  revolver  on  the  table." 

The  Spaniard  again  obeyed.  Tavernay  pushed  open 
the  door  of  an  inner  room. 

"You  are  drunk,"  he  said.  "You  must  not  be 
seen  in  this  condition  by  your  fellow-soldiers.  Go  in 
and  lie  down!" 

The  Spaniard  stared  at  his  officer  stupidly,  tottering 
upon  his  limbs.  Then  he  staggered  into  the  captain's 
room.  Tavernay  turned  back  to  Stretton,  and  a  ghost 
of  a  smile  crept  into  his  face. 

"It  is  theatrical,"  he  said,  with  a  little  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  "But  what  would  you  have,  monsieur?" 
and  he  spoke  to  Stretton  as  to  an  equal.  "You  are 
astonished.  It  is  very  likely  not  your  way  in  your — 
fishing-boats,"  he  continued,  with  a  chuckle.    Stretton 

175 


THE   TRUANTS 

knew  very  well  that  he  meant  "army."  "  But  there 
is  no  Foreign  Legion  among  your — fishermen."  He 
laughed  again,  and  gathering  up  his  papers  dismissed 
Stretton  to  the  tailor's.  But  after  Stretton  had  taken 
a  few  steps  across  the  parade,  Tavemay  called  him 
back  again.  He  looked  at  him  with  a  very  friendly 
smile. 

"I,  too,  enlisted  at  Marseilles,"  he  said.  "One  can 
rise  in  the  Foreign  Legion  by  means  of  these,"  and  he 
touched  lightly  the  medals  upon  his  breast.  This  was 
Tony  Stretton 's  introducton  to  the  Foreign  Legion. 


XVII 
GALLON  LEAVES  ENGLAND 

SPRING  that  year  drew  summer  quickly  after  it. 
The  Hlac  was  early  in  flower,  the  days  bright  and 
hot.  At  nine  o'clock  on  a  May  morning  Gallon's  ser- 
vant drew  up  the  blinds  in  his  master's  room  and  let 
the  sunlight  in.  Lionel  Gallon  stretched  himself  in 
bed  and  asked  for  his  letters  and  his  tea.  As  he  drank 
his  tea  he  picked  up  his  letters  one  by  one,  and  the 
first  at  which  he  looked  brought  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
to  his  face.  The  superscription  told  him  that  it  was 
from  Millie  Stretton.  That  little  device  of  a  quarrel 
had  proved  successful,  then.  He  tore  open  the  en- 
velope and  read  the  letter.  Millie  wrote  at  no  great 
length,  but  what  was  written  satisfied  Gallon.  She 
could  not  understand  how  the  quarrel  had  arisen. 
She  had  been  thinking  it  over  many  times  since  it 
happened,  and  she  was  still  baffled.  She  had  not  had 
a  thought  of  hurting  him.  How  could  she,  since  they 
were  friends  ?  She  had  been  hoping  to  hear  from  him, 
but  since  some  time  had  passed  and  no  word  had 
reached  her,  she  must  write  and  say  that  she  thought 
it  sad  their  friendship  should  have  ended  as  it  had. 

It  was  a  wistful  little  letter,  and  as  Gallon  laid  it  down 
he  said  to  himself,  "Poor  little  girl!"  but  he  said  the 
words  with  a  smile  rather  than  with  any  contrition. 
She  had  been  the  first  to  write — that  was  the  main 
point.     Had  he  given  in,   had   he  been  the  one  to 

12  177 


THE   TRUANTS 

make  the  advance,  to  save  her  the  troubled  specula- 
tions, the  sorrow  at  this  abrupt  close  to  their  friend- 
ship, Millie  Stretton  would  have  been  glad,  no  doubt, 
but  she  would  have  thought  him  weak.  Now  he  was 
the  strong  man.  He  had  caused  her  suffering  and 
abased  her  to  seek  a  reconciliation.  Therefore  he  was 
the  strong  man.  Well,  women  would  have  it  so,  he 
thought,  with  a  chuckle,  and  why  should  he  complain  ? 
He  wrote  a  note  to  Millie  Stretton  announcing  that 
he  would  call  that  afternoon,  and  despatched  the  note 
by  a  messenger.  Then  he  turned  to  his  other  letters, 
and  among  them  he  found  one  which  drove  all  the 
satisfaction  from  his  thoughts.  It  came  from  a  firm 
of  solicitors,  and  was  couched  in  a  style  with  which  he 
was  not  altogether  unfamiliar. 

"Sir, — Messrs.  Deacon  &  Sons  (Livery  Stables,  Mont- 
gomery Street) ,  having  placed  their  books  in  our  hands  for  the 
collection  of  their  outstanding  debts,  we  must  ask  you  to  send 
us  a  check  in  settlement  of  your  account  by  return  of  post, 
and  thus  save  further  proceedings.     We  are,  yours,  etc., 

"Humphreys    &.    Neill." 

Gallon  allowed  the  letter  to  slip  from  his  fingers, 
and  lay  for  a  while  very  still,  feeling  rather  helpless, 
rather  afraid.  It  was  not  merely  the  amount  of  the 
bill  which  troubled  him,  although  that  was  incon- 
veniently large.  But  there  were  other  reasons.  His 
eyes  wandered  to  a  drawer  in  his  dressing-table.  He 
got  out  of  bed  and  unlocked  it.  At  the  bottom  of 
that  drawer  lay  the  other  reasons,  piled  one  upon  the 
other — letters  couched  in  just  the  same  words  as  that 
which  he  had  received  this  morning,  and — still  worse! 
— signed  by  this  same  firm  of  Humphreys  &  Neill. 
Moreover,  every  one  of  those  letters  had  reached  him 

178 


THE   TRUANTS 

within  the  last  ten  days.  It  seemed  that  all  his  trades- 
men had  suddenly  placed  their  books  in  the  hands  of 
Messrs.  Humphreys  &  Neill. 

Gallon  took  the  letters  back  to  his  bed.  There  were 
quite  an  astonishing  number  of  them.  Gallon  him- 
self was  surprised  to  see  how  deep  he  was  in  debt. 
They  littered  the  bed — tailor's  bills,  bills  for  expen- 
sive little  presents  of  jewelry,  bills  run  up  at  restaurants 
for  dinners  and  suppers,  bills  for  the  hire  of  horses 
and  carriages,  bills  of  all  kinds — and  there  were  just 
Mr.  Gallon's  election  expenses  in  Mr.  Gallon's  ex- 
chequer that  morning.  Even  if  he  parted  with  them 
they  would  not  pay  a  fifth  part  of  the  sum  claimed. 
Fear  invaded  him;  he  saw  no  way  out  of  his  troubles. 
Given  time,  he  could  borrow  enough,  no  doubt,  scrape 
enough  money  together  one  way  or  another  to  tide 
himself  over  the  difficulty.  His  hand  searched  for 
Millie  Stretton's  letter  and  found  it  and  rejected  it. 
He  needed  time  there;  he  must  walk  warily  or  he 
would  spoil  all.  And  looking  at  the  bills  he  knew 
that  he  had  not  the  time. 

It  was  improbable,  nay,  more  than  improbable,  that 
all  these  bills  were  in  the  hands  of  one  firm  by  mere 
chance.  No,  somewhere  he  had  an  enemy.  A  man 
— or  it  might  be  a  woman — was  striking  at  him  out  of 
the  dark,  striking  with  knowledge,  too.  For  the  blow 
fell  where  he  could  least  parry  it.  Mr.  Mudge  would 
have  been  quite  satisfied  could  he  have  seen  Gallon  as 
he  lay  that  morning  with  the  summer  sunlight  pour- 
ing into  his  bedroom.  He  looked  more  than  his  age, 
and  his  face  was  haggard.  He  felt  that  a  hand  was 
at  his  throat,  a  hand  which  gripped  and  gripped  with 
an  ever-increasing  pressure. 

He  tried  to  guess  who  his  enemy  might  be.     But 

179 


THE   TRUANTS 

there  were  so  many  who  might  be  glad  to  do  him  an 
ill  turn.  Name  after  name  occurred  to  him,  but 
among  those  names  was  not  the  name  of  Mr.  Mudge. 
That  shy  and  inoffensive  man  was  the  last  whom  he 
would  have  suspected  to  be  meddling  with  his  life. 

Gallon  sprang  out  of  bed.  He  must  go  down  to 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  interview  Messrs.  Hum- 
phreys &  Neill.  Summonses  would  never  do  with  a 
general  election  so  near.  He  dressed  quickly,  and  soon 
after  ten  was  in  the  office  of  that  firm.  He  was  re- 
ceived by  a  bald  and  smiling  gentleman  in  spec- 
tacles. 

"Mr.  Gallon?"  said  the  smiling  gentleman,  who  an- 
nounced himself  as  Humphreys.  "Oh  yes.  You 
have  come  in  reference  to  the  letters  which  our  clients 
have  desired  us  to  send  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Gallon.  "There  are  a  good  number 
of  letters." 

The  smiling  gentleman  laughed  genially. 

"A  man  of  fashion,  Mr.  Gallon,  has,  of  course,  many 
expenses  which  we  humdrum  business  people  are 
spared.  Let  me  see.  The  total  amount  due  is — " 
and  Mr.  Humphreys  made  a  calculation  with  his 
pen. 

"I  came  to  ask  for  an  extension  of  time,"  Gallon 
blurted  out,  and  the  smiling  gentleman  ceased  to  smile. 
He  gazed  through  his  spectacles  with  a  look  of  the  ut- 
most astonishment.  "You  see,  Mr.  Humphreys,  all 
these  bills,  each  one  accompanied  with  a  peremptory 
demand  for  payment,  have  been  presented  together 
almost,  as  it  were,  by  the  same  post." 

"They  are  all,  however,  to  account  rendered,"  said 
Mr.  Humphreys,  as  he  removed  and  breathed  upon  his 
spectacles. 

1 80 


THE   TRUANTS 

"It  would,  I  frankly  confess,  seriously  embarrass  me 
to  settle  them  all  at  once." 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  in  a  voice  of  re- 
gret. "I  am  very  sorry.  These  duties  are  very  pain- 
ful to  me,  Mr.  Gallon.  But  I  have  the  strictest  in- 
structions," and  he  rose  from  his  chair  to  conclude  the 
interview. 

"One  moment,"  said  Gallon,  bluntly,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  how  it  is  that  all  my  bills  have  come  into  your 
hands?     Who  is  it  who  has  bought  them  up?" 

"Really,  really,  Mr.  Gallon,"  the  lawyer  protested, 
"I  cannot  listen  to  such  suggestions,"  and  then  the 
smile  came  back  to  his  face.  "Why  not  pay  them  in 
full?"  His  eyes  beamed  through  his  spectacles.  He 
had  an  air  of  making  a  perfectly  original  and  delightful 
suggestion.  "Sit  down  in  this  comfortable  chair  now 
and  write  me  out  a  little  check  for — let  me  see — "  and 
he  went  back  to  his  table. 

"I  must  have  some  time,"  said  Gallon. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  gradually  persuaded  that  a 
period  of  time  was  reasonable. 

"A  day,  then,"  he  said.  "We  will  say  a  day,  Mr. 
Gallon.  This  is  Wednesday.  Some  time  to-morrow 
we  shall  hear  from  you."  And  he  bowed  Gallon  from 
his  office.  Then  he  wrote  a  little  note  and  despatched 
it  by  a  messenger  into  the  city.  The  message  was  re- 
ceived by  Mr.  Mudge,  who  read  it,  took  up  his  hat,  and, 
jumping  into  a  hansom-cab,  drove  westward  with  all 
speed. 

Lionel  Gallon,  on  the  contrary,  walked  back  to  his 
rooms.  He  had  been  in  tight  places  before,  but  never 
in  a  place  quite  so  tight.  Before  it  was  really  the 
money  which  had  been  needed.  Now  what  was  needed 
was  his  ruin.     And,  to  make  matters  worse,  he  had  no 

i8i 


THE   TRUANTS 

idea  of  the  particular  person  who  wished  to  ruin  him. 
He  walked  gloomily  back  to  his  club  and  lunched  in 
solitude.  A  day  remained  to  him,  but  what  could  he 
do  in  a  day  unless  ? —  There  was  a  certain  letter  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  Gallon's  coat  to  which  more  than  once, 
as  he  lunched,  his  fingers  strayed.  He  took  it  out  and 
read  it  again.  It  was  too  soon  to  borrow  in  that 
quarter,  but  his  back  was  against  the  wall.  He  saw 
no  other  chance  of  escape.  He  drove  to  Millie  Stret- 
ton's  house  in  Berkeley  Square  at  the  appointed  time 
that  afternoon. 

But  Mr.  Mudge  had  foreseen.  When  he  jumped  into 
his  hansom-cab  he  had  driven  straight  to  the  house  in 
Audley  Square  where  Pamela  Mardale  was  staying 
with  some  friends. 

"Are  you  lunching  anywhere?"  he  asked.  "No? 
Then  lunch  with  Lady  Stretton,  please!  And  don't 
go  away  too  soon !  See  as  much  as  you  can  of  her  dur- 
ing the  next  two  days." 

As  a  consequence,  when  Lionel  Gallon  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room  he  found  Pamela  Mardale  in 
her  most  talkative  mood  and  Milhe  Stretton  sitting 
before  the  tea-table  silent  and  helpless.  Gallon  stayed 
late.  Pamela  stayed  later.  Gallon  returned  to  his 
club,  having  said  not  a  single  word  upon  the  momen- 
tous subject  of  his  debts. 

At  his  club  Gallon  ordered  a  stiff  brandy-and-soda. 
Somehow  he  must  manage  to  see  Millie  Stretton  alone. 
He  thought  for  a  moment  of  writing;  he,  indeed,  actu- 
ally began  to  write.  But  the  proposal  looked  too  crude 
when  written  down.  Gallon  knew  the  tactics  of  his 
game.  There  must,  in  a  word,  be  an  offer  from  Millie, 
not  a  request  from  him.  He  tore  up  his  letter,  and 
while  he  was  tearing  it  up  Mr.  Mudge  entered  the  smok- 

182 


THE   TRUANTS 

ing-room.  Mudge  nodded  carelessly  to  Gallon,  and 
then  seemed  to  be  struck  by  an  idea.  He  came  across 
to  the  writing-table  and  said: 

"  Do  I  interrupt  you?  I  wonder  whether  you  could 
help  me  ?  You  know  so  many  people  that  you  might 
be  able  to  lay  your  finger  at  once  on  the  kind  of  man  I 
want." 

Gallon  looked  up  carelessly  at  Mudge. 

"No.  You' are  not  interrupting  me.  What  kind  of 
man  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  a  man  to  superintend  an  important  under- 
taking which  I  have  in  hand." 

Gallon  swung  round  in  his  chair.  All  his  careless- 
ness had  gone.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Mudge,  who  stood 
drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  writing-table. 

"Oh,"  said  Gallon.     "Tell  me  about  it." 

He  walked  over  to  a  corner  of  the  room  which  was 
unoccupied  and  sat  down.  Mudge  sat  beside  him  and 
lighted  a  cigar. 

"I  want  a  man  to  supervise,  you  understand.  I 
don't  want  an  expert,  for  I  have  engineers  and  tech- 
nical men  enough  on  the  spot.  And  I  don't  want  any 
one  out  of  my  office.  I  need  some  one  on  whom  I  can 
rely,  to  keep  me  in  touch  with  what  is  going  on,  some 
one  quite  outside  my  business  and  its  associations." 

"I  see,"  said  Gallon.  "The  appointment  would  be 
for  how  long?" 

"Two  years." 

"And  the  salary  would  be  good?" 

Gallon  leaned  back  on  the  lounge  as  he  put  the 
question,  and  he  put  it  without  any  show  of  eagerness. 
Two  years  would  be  all  the  time  he  needed  wherein  to 
set  himself  straight ;  and  it  seemed  the  work  would  not 
be  arduous. 

183 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  think  so,"  replied  Mudge.  "You  shall  judge  for 
yourself.     It  would  be  four  thousand  a  year." 

Gallon  did  not  answer  for  a  little  while,  simply  be- 
cause he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  His  heart 
was  beating  fast.  Four  thousand  a  year  for  two  years! 
He  would  be  able  to  laugh  at  that  unknown  enemy  who 
was  striking  at  him  from  the  dark. 

"Should  I  do?"  he  asked,  at  length,  and  even  then 
his  voice  shook.  Mr.  Mudge  appeared,  however,  not 
to  notice  his  agitation.  He  was  looking  down  at  the 
carpet  and  tracing  the  pattern  with  the  ferrule  of  his 
walking-stick. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  as  though  Gallon 
had  been  merely  uttering  a  joke.  He  did  not  even  lift 
his  eyes  to  Gallon's  face.  "Of  course;  I  only  wish  you 
were  serious." 

"But  I  am,"  cried  Gallon. 

Mr.  Mudge  looked  at  his  companion  now  and  with 
surprise. 

"Are  you?  But  you  wouldn't  have  the  time  to 
spare.     You  are  standing  for  a  constituency." 

Gallon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  so  very  keen  about  ParHament. 
And  there  are  reasons  why  I  would  welcome  the 
work." 

Mr.  Mudge  answered  with  alacrity. 

"Then  we  will  consider  it  settled.  Dine  with  me 
to-night  at  my  house  and  we  will  talk  the  details 
over." 

Gallon  accepted  the  invitation,  and  Mudge  rose  from 
his  seat.     Gallon,  however,  detained  him. 

"There's  one  difficulty  in  the  way,"  and  Mr.  Mudge's 
face  became  clouded  with  anxiety.  "The  truth  is,  I 
am  rather  embarrassed   at  the  present  moment.     I 

184 


THE   TRUANTS 

owe  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  I  am  threatened  with 
proceedings  unless  it  is  immediately  paid." 

Mudge's  face  cleared  at  once. 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  he  exclaimed,  cheerily.  "How 
much  do  you  owe?" 

"Pretty  nearly  my  first  year's  salary." 

"Well,  I  will  advance  you  half  at  once.  Offer  them 
two  thousand  on  account,  and  they  will  stay  proceed- 
ings." 

"I  don't  know  that  they  will,"  replied  Gallon. 

"You  can  try  them,  at  all  events.  If  they  won't 
accept  half,  send  them  to  me,  and  we-will  make  some 
other  arrangement.  But  they  are  sure  to.  They  are 
pressing  for  immediate  payment  because  they  are 
afraid  they  wih  get  nothing  at  all  by  any  other  way. 
But  ofEer  them  two  thousand  down,  and  see  the  pleas- 
ant faces  with  which  they  will  greet  you."  Mr. 
Mudge  was  quite  gay  now  that  he  understood  how  small 
was  the  obstacle  which  hindered  him  from  gaining 
Lionel  Gallon's  invaluable  help.  "I  will  write  you  a 
check,"  he  said,  and  sitting  down  at  a  writing-table  he 
filled  out  a  check  and  brought  it  back.  He  stood  in 
front  of  Gallon  with  the  check  in  his  hand.  He  did 
not  give  it  to  Gallon  at  once.  He  had  not  blotted  it, 
and  he  held  it  by  a  comer  and  gently  waved  it  to  and 
fro  so  that  the  ink  might  dry.  It  followed  that  those 
tantaHzing  "naughts,"  three  of  them,  one  behind  the 
other,  and  preceded  by  a  two,  like  a  file  of  soldiers  with 
a  sergeant  at  the  head,  and  that  excellent  signature 
"John  Mudge,"  were  constantly  before  Gallon's  eyes, 
now  approaching  him  like  some  shy  maiden  in  a  flutter 
of  agitation ,  now  coyly  receding.  But  to  no  shy  maiden 
had  Lionel  Gallon  ever  said  "  I  love  you"  with  so  glow- 
ing an  ardor  as  he  felt  for  that  most  tantaHzing  check. 

185 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you,"  said  Mr.  Mudge,  "that 
the  undertaking  is  a  railway  abroad." 

Gallon  had  been  so  blinded  by  the  dazzle  of  the  check 
that  he  had  not  dreamed  of  that  possibility.  Two 
years  abroad,  even  at  four  thousand  a  year,  did  not  at 
all  fit  in  with  his  scheme  of  life. 

"Abroad?"  he  repeated,  doubtfully.     "Where?" 

"Chile,"  said  Mr.  Mudge;  and  he  looked  at  the  check 
to  see  that  the  ink  was  quite  dry.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Mudge's  voice  was  a  trifle  too  unconcerned.  Perhaps 
there  was  something  a  little  too  suggestive  in  his  exam- 
ination of  his  check.  Perhaps  he  kept  his  eyes  too 
deliberately  from  Gallon's  face.  At  all  events.  Gallon 
became  suddenly  suspicious.  There  flashed  into  his 
mind  by  .some  trick  of  memory  a  picture — a  picture  of 
Mr.  Mudge  and  Pamela  Mardale  talking  earnestly  to- 
gether upon  a  couch  in  a  drawing-room  and  of  himself 
sitting  at  a  card-table — fixed  there  till  the  game  was 
over,  though  he  knew  well  that  the  earnest  conversa- 
tion was  aimed  against  himself.  He  started,  he  looked 
at  Mudge  in  perplexity. 

"Well?"  said  Mudge. 

"Wait  a  moment!" 

Pamela  Mardale  was  Millie  Stretton's  friend.  There 
was  that  incident  in  the  hall — Millie  Stretton  coming 
down  the  stairs  and  Pamela  in  front  of  the  mirror  over 
the  mantel  -  piece.  Finally  there  was  Pamela's  per- 
sistent presence  at  Millie  Stretton's  house  this  after- 
noon. One  by  one  the  incidents  gathered  in  his  recol- 
lections and  fitted  themselves  together  and  explained 
one  another.  Was  this  offer  a  pretext  to  get  him  out 
of  the  way?  Gallon,  after  all,  was  not  a  fool,  and  he 
asked  himself  why  in  the  world  Mr.  Mudge  should, 
just  at  this  moment  when  he  was  in  desperate  straits, 

i86 


THE   TRUANTS 

offer  him  ;;^4ooo  a  year  to  superintend  a  railway  in 
Chile? 

"Well?"  said  Mudge  again. 

"I  must  have  time  to  think  over  the  proposition," 
replied  Gallon.  He  meant  that  he  must  have  time  to 
obtain  an  interview  with  Millie  Stretton.  But  Mudge 
was  ready  for  him. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he.  "  That  is  only  reasonable.  It 
is  seven  o'clock  now.  You  dine  with  me  at  eight. 
Give  me  your  answer  then." 

"  I  should  hke  till  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Callon. 

Mr.  Mudge  shook  his  head. 

"That,  I  am  afraid,  is  impossible.  We  shall  need 
all  to-morrow  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements 
and  to  talk  over  your  duties.  For  if  you  undertake 
the  work  you  must  leave  England  on  the  day  after." 

Callon  started  up  in  protest.  "On  the  day  after!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"It  gives  very  little  time,  I  know,"  said  Mudge. 
Then  he  looked  Callon  quietly  and  deliberately  in  the 
eyes.  "But,  you  see,  I  want  to  get  you  out  of  the 
country  at  once." 

Callon  no  longer  doubted.  He  had  thought,  through 
Mr.  Mudge's  help,  to  laugh  at  his  enemy,  and  lo!  the 
enemy  was  Mudge  himself.  It  was  Mudge  who  had 
bought  up  his  debts,  who  now  held  him  in  so  secure 
a  grip  that  he  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  practise 
any  concealment.  Callon  was  humiUated  to  the  verge 
of  endurance.  Two  years  in  Chile  pretending  to  su- 
pervise a  railway !  He  understood  the  position  which 
he  would  occupy ;  he  was  within  an  ace  of  flinging  the 
offer  back.     But  he  dared  not. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.     "I  will  give  you  my  answer 

at  eight." 

187 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Thanks.  Be  punctual."  Mr.  Mudge  sauntered 
away.  There  could  only  be  the  one  answer.  Mr. 
Lionel  Gallon  might  twist  and  turn  as  he  pleased,  he 
would  spend  two  years  in  Chile.  It  was  five  minutes 
past  seven.  Gallon  could  hardly  call  at  the  house  in 
Berkeley  Square  with  any  chance  of  seeing  Lady  Stret- 
ton  between  now  and  eight.  Mudge  was  contented 
with  his  afternoon. 

At  eight  o'clock  Gallon  gave  in  his  submission  and 
pocketed  the  check.  At  eleven  he  proposed  to  go, 
but  Mudge,  mindful  of  an  evening  visit  which  he  had 
witnessed  from  a  balcony,  could  not  part  from  his  new 
manager  so  soon.  There  was  so  little  time  for  dis- 
cussion even  with  every  minute  of  Gallon's  stay  in 
England.  He  kept  Gallon  with  him  until  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning;  he  made  an  appointment  with  him  at 
ten,  and  there  was  a  note  of  warning  in  his  voice  which 
bade  Gallon  punctually  keep  it.  By  one  shift  and  an- 
other he  kept  him  busy  all  that  day,  and  in  the  evening 
Gallon  had  to  pack,  to  write  his  letters,  and  to  make 
his  arrangements  for  his  departure.  Moreover,  Pam- 
ela Mardale  dined  quietly  with  Millie  Stretton  and 
stayed  late.  It  thus  happened  that  Gallon  left  Eng- 
land without  seeing  Millie  Stretton  again.  He  could 
write,  of  course,  but  he  could  do  no  more. 


XVIII 
SOUTH   OF   OUARGLA 

HALT!"  cried  Captain  Tavernay. 
The  bugler  at  his  side  raised  his  bugle  to  his 
lips  and  blew.  The  dozen  chasseurs  d'Afrique  and 
the  ten  native  scouts  who  formed  the  advance-guard 
stopped  upon  the  signal.  A  couple  of  hundred  yards 
behind  them  the  two  companies  of  the  Foreign  Legion 
came  to  a  stand-still.  The  convoy  of  baggage  mules 
upon  the  right  fiank,  the  hospital  equipment,  the  ar- 
tillery section,  the  herd  of  oxen  which  was  driven  along 
in  the  rear — in  a  word,  the  whole  expedition  halted  in 
a  wood  of  dwarf  oaks  and  junipers  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  order  was  given  to  gather  wood  for  the  night's 
camp-fires  and  the  companies  were  dismissed.  Each 
soldier  made  his  little  bundle  and  fixed  it  upon  his 
shoulders.  Again  the  bugle  rang  out,  sounding  the 
"fall  in."  And  the  tiny  force  marched  out  from  the 
trees  of  the  High  Plateaux  into  the  open  desert.  It 
was  extraordinary  with  what  abruptness  that  tran- 
sition was  made.  One  minute  the  companies  were 
treading  upon  turf  under  rustling  leaves,  the  next  they 
were  descending  a  slope  carpeted  with  halfa- grass 
which  stretched  away  to  the  horizon's  rim,  with  hardly 
a  bush  to  break  its  bare  monotony.  At  the  hmit  of 
vision  a  great  arc  like  a  mirror  of  silver  glittered  out  of 
the  plain. 

189 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Water,"  said  a  tall,  bearded  soldier  who  marched 
in  the  front  rank  of  the  first  company.  It  was  he  who 
had  stepped  from  the  train  at  Bel-Abb6s  with  a  light 
dust-coat  over  his  evening  dress  suit.  He  passed  now 
as  fusilier  Barbier,  an  ex-engineer  of  Lyons. 

"No,"  repHed  Sergeant  Ohlsen,  who  marched  at 
his  side.     "The  crystals  of  a  dry  salt  lake." 

In  the  autumn  of  last  year  Ohlsen — or  rather,  to 
give  him  his  right  name,  Tony  Stretton — had  marched 
upon  an  expedition  from  Mesheria  to  the  Chott  Tigri, 
and  knew  therefore  the  look  of  those  tantalizing  salt 
lakes.  That  expedition,  which  had  conducted  a  sur- 
vey for  a  road  to  the  Tiguig  oasis,  had  brought  him  his 
promotion. 

"But  we  camp  by  the  lake  to-night,"  he  added. 
"The  wells  of  El-Guethifa  are  close." 

The  companies  went  forward,  and  above  that  salt 
lake  they  saw  the  mirages  begin  to  shimmer,  citadels 
and  hanging  gardens,  tall  towers  and  waving  woods 
and  majestic  galleons,  topsail  over  topsail,  floating 
upon  summer  seas.  At  the  wells  the  sheikh  of  the 
district  was  waiting  upon  a  mule. 

"I  want  fifty  camels  with  their  saddles  and  their 
drivers  at  five  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Tav- 
emay ;  and  although  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  there 
was  no  moving  thing  upon  that  vast  plain  except  the 
small  group  of  Arabs  and  soldiers  about  the  well,  by 
five  o'clock  the  camels  were  squatting  upon  the  sand 
with  their  drivers  beside  them.  The  mules  were  sent 
back  from  El-Guethifa  that  morning,  the  baggage  was 
packed  upon  the  camels,  and  the  little  force,  insuf- 
ficient in  numbers  and  supplies,  went  forward  on  its 
long  and  untoward  march. 

It  passed  through  the  oases  of  El-Maia  and  Methlili 

190 


THE   TRUANTS 

to  Ouargla,  at  that  time  the  last  outpost  of  French 
authority.  At  Ouargla  it  rested  for  a  week;  and  there, 
renewing  its  supplies,  penetrated  southward  to  sur- 
vey the  desert  country  of  the  Touaregs  for  the  con- 
struction of  the  oft -mooted  trans  -  Saharan  railway. 
South  of  Ouargla  all  the  difficulties  of  the  advance 
were  doubled.  The  companies  went  down  through  the 
archipelago  of  oases  in  the  dangerous  Touat  country 
among  a  sullen  people  who  had  little  food  to  supply, 
and  would  hardly  supply  it.  Tavernay  led  his  men 
with  care,  neither  practising  a  discipline  needlessly 
strict  nor  relaxing  into  carelessness.  But  he  was  un- 
der-officered, and  his  officers  even  so  were  inexperi- 
enced. Lieutenant  Laurent,  a  man  irritable  and  un- 
just, was  his  second  in  command,  and  there  were  but 
two  sous-lieutenants  besides.  In  spite  of  all  Taver- 
nay's  care,  the  convoy  diminshed.  One  day  a  camel 
would  stumble  on  the  slippery  bottom  of  a  salt  marsh, 
fall  and  break  its  limbs;  the  next,  another  would  fail 
and  die  through  a  long-untended  wound  caused  by  the 
rough  saddle  upon  its  back.  In  the  ranks  of  the  sol- 
diers, too,  there  was  trouble,  and  Laurent  was  not  the 
man  to  deal  with  it.  There  was  hardly  a  company  of 
the  legion,  recruited  as  it  largely  was  from  the  out- 
casts and  the  men  of  sorrows,  in  which  there  were  not 
some  of  disordered  minds,  some  whom  absinthe  had 
brought  to  the  edges  of  insanity.  Upon  these  the 
severity  of  the  expedition  worked  havoc.  Tents  had 
been  perforce  discarded.  The  men  slept  under  the 
stars.  They  woke  from  freezing  nights  to  the  bitter 
winds  of  dawn,  and  two  hours  after  dawn  they  were 
parched  by  a  burning  sun,  and  all  the  day  they  suf- 
fered under  its  pitiless  and  blinding  glare.  Storms 
whelmed  them  in  lofty  spirals  of  whirling,  choking  sand. 

191 


THE   TRUANTS 

For  a  week  they  would  toil  over  high,  red,  mountain- 
ous ground  of  loose  stones;  then  would  follow  the 
monotony  of  bare,  round  plains,  piled  here  and  there 
with  black  rocks  quivering  and  glittering  in  the  heat 
when  the  sun  rose  day  after  day  upon  their  left  hand 
in  scarlet,  and  set  in  scarlet  upon  their  right,  and  they 
themselves  were  still  the  tiny  centre  of  the  same  empty, 
inhospitable  space;  so  that  only  the  difference  of  the 
ground  they  trod,  the  feel  of  soft  sand  beneath  their 
feet,  where  a  minute  before  they  had  marched  on 
gravel,  told  them  that  they  progressed  at  all.  The 
worst  of  the  men  became  prone  to  disobedience,  eager 
for  change;  and  every  now  and  then  a  soldier  would 
rise  upon  his  elbow  in  the  night-time,  gaze  furtively 
about  over  his  sleeping  comrades,  watch  the  sentries 
until  their  backs  were  turned,  and  then  crawl  past 
them  into  the  darkness.  Of  these  men  none  ever  re- 
turned. Or  some  mania  would  seize  upon  them  and 
fix  a  strange  idea  in  their  brains,  such  as  that  which 
besieged  Barbier,  the  fusilier,  who  had  once  stepped 
out  of  the  railway-carriage  in  his  evening  dress.  He 
leaned  over  towards  Stretton  one  evening,  and  said, 
in  a  hoarse,  trembling  voice, 

"I  can  stand  it  no  longer." 

Both  men  were  sitting  by  a  tiny  fire  which  Barbier 
was  feeding  with  handfuls  of  halfa-grass  and  sticks. 
He  was  kneeling  up  in  front  of  it,  and  by  the  red,  wav- 
ing light  Stretton  saw  that  his  face  was  quivering  with 
excitement. 

"What  can't  you  stand?"  he  asked. 

"  It  is  Captain  Tavernay,"  replied  Barbier.  He  sud- 
denly laughed  in  a  pitiful  fashion  and  cast  a  glance 
over  his  shoulder.  "There  is  a  man  put  on  to  watch 
me.     Night  and  day  I  am  watched  by  Captain  Tav- 

192 


THE   TRUANTS 

ernay's  orders.  He  wants  to  fix  a  crime  on  me!  I 
know.     He  wants  to  trap  me.     But  let  him  take  care!" 

Stretton  fetched  the  doctor,  who  Hstened  for  a  while 
to  Barbier's  rambling,  minatory  talk  and  then  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders. 

"Hallucinations,"  said  he.  "Ideas  of  persecution. 
The  commonest  form,"  and  having  fixed  Barbier  into 
his  proper  category  he  walked  away.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done  for  Barbier  upon  this  expedition.  He 
had  to  be  watched;  that  was  all.  Thus  for  seven  hun- 
dred miles  the  force  pushed  southward  from  Ouargla, 
and  thus  from  within  it  disintegrated  as  it  went. 
Tavernay  could  not  but  notice  the  change,  but  he  said 
nothing  to  any  subordinate.  The  men  would  fight 
well  if  fighting  happened.  That  he  knew,  and  mean- 
while he  marched  on. 

It  was  just  when  th^  seven  hundred  miles  had  been 
completed  that  Tavernay  realized  fighting  was  likely 
to  happen.  He  went  the  round  of  the  camp  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  when  the  rifles  were  piled  and  the  fires 
crackling.  Stretton  was  at  his  side,  and  saw  his  com- 
mander stop  and  shade  his  eyes.  Tavernay  was  look- 
ing westward.  Far  away  against  the  glowing  ball  of 
the  sun,  which  was  just  dipping  down  behind  the  plain, 
the  figure  of  an  Arab  mounted  upon  a  camel  stood 
motionless  and  black.  Tavernay  swung  round  and 
looked  behind  him.  On  the  crest  of  a  sand-hill  to 
the  north  a  second  rider  stood  distinct  against  the 
sky. 

Tavernay  watched  the  men  for  a  long  time  through 
his  glasses. 

"Touaregs,"  said  he,  gravely.  "Masked  Touaregs," 
and  that  night  the  sentinels  were  doubled ;  and  in  the 
morning  the  bugle  did  not  sound  the  reveille. 

'3  193 


THE   TRUANTS 

Moreover,  when  the  force  advanced,  it  advanced  in 
the  formation  of  a  square,  with  the  baggage  camels  in 
the  centre,  one  gun  in  the  front  hne  and  the  other  in 
the  rear.  They  had  marched  into  the  country  where 
the  Senoussa  sect  prevailed.  The  monasteries  of  that 
body  sent  out  their  missionaries  eastward  to  Khordofan, 
westward  to  Tafilet,  preaching  the  purification  of  the 
Mohammedan  religion  and  the  enlargement  of  Moham- 
medan countries  now  subject  to  the  infidels.  But 
nowhere  had  the  missionaries  raised  their  standard  with 
more  success  than  in  this  Touat  country  of  the  Sahara. 
The  companies  marched  that  day  alert  and  cheerful. 
They  were  consolidated  by  the  knowledge  of  danger. 
Captain  Tavernay  led  them  with  pride. 

"An  insufficient  force,  ill-found,  inadequately  offi- 
cered," he  thought.  "  But  the  men  are  of  the  legion." 
They  were  "mes  enfants"  to  him  all  that  day. 

But  the  attack  was  not  yet  to  be  delivered.  During 
the  night  the  two  scouts  had  ridden  on  their  swift 
Maharis  northwestward  to  the  town  of  Lasalah.  They 
knocked  upon  the  gates  of  the  great  mud  fortress  of 
Abd-el-Kader,  the  sheikh,  and  were  instantly  admitted 
to  the  dark  room  where  he  sat  upon  a  pile  of  rugs. 
When  the  eyes  of  the  scouts  became  accustomed  to  the 
gloom  they  saw  there  was  yet  another  in  the  room,  a 
tall  man  robed  in  black  with  a  black  mask  of  cotton 
wound  about  his  face  so  that  only  his  eyes  were  visible. 
This  was  the  chieftain  of  the  Hoggar  Touaregs. 

"Well?"  said  Abd-el-Kader,  and  the  scouts  told  him 
roughly  the  number  of  the  force  and  the  direction  of 
the  journey. 

Then  Abd-el-Kader  turned  to  the  Touareg  chieftain. 

"We  will  let  them  go  farther  south,  since  south- 
ward they  are  marching,"  he  said,  in  his  suave,  gentle 

194 


THE   TRUANTS 

voice.  "A  hundred  miles  more  and  they  will  be 
among  the  sand-dunes.  Since  they  have  cannon,  the 
attack  must  be  sudden.  Let  it  be  at  the  wells  of  Bir- 
el-Gharamo." 

The  Touareg  chieftain  rode  out  that  day  towards  his 
hills;  and,  unmolested,  Captain  Tavernay's  expedition 
went  down  to  the  dunes.  Great  waves  of  yellow  sand, 
sometimes  three  hundred  feet  from  crest  to  base,  in- 
tersected the  face  of  the  desert;  the  winds  had  given 
to  their  summits  the  overhang  of  a  breaking  sea;  they 
ran  this  way  and  that  as  though  the  currents  of  an 
ocean  had  directed  their  course;  they  had  the  very 
look  of  motion;  so  that  Stretton  could  not  but  remem- 
ber the  roaring  combers  of  the  cold  North  Sea  as  he 
gazed  upon  these  silent  and  arrested  copies.  They 
made  of  that  country  a  maze  of  intricate  valleys.  Led 
by  a  local  guide  commandeered  from  the  last  oasis,  the 
companies  of  the  legion  marched  into  the  maze,  and 
on  the  second  day  saw,  as  they  came  over  a  hill,  just 
below  them  in  a  narrow  hollow,  a  mud  parapet  built 
about  the  mouth  of  a  well.  This  was  Bir-el-Gharamo, 
and  here  they  camped.  Sentries  were  posted  on  the 
neighboring  crests;  suddenly  the  darkness  came  and 
overhead  the  stars  rushed  down  towards  the  earth. 
There  was  no  moon  that  night,  nor  was  there  any  sound 
of  danger  heard.  Three  times  Tavernay  went  the 
round  of  the  sentries — at  eight  and  at  ten  and  at 
twelve.  But  at  three  o'clock,  just  as  the  dawn  was 
breaking,  a  shot  was  heard.  Tavernay  sprang  up 
from  the  ground,  the  alarm  rang  out  clear  from  the 
bugle  over  the  infinite  waste,  the  companies  of  the 
legion  seized  their  piled  rifles  and  fell  into  battle  order 
with  an  incredible  neatness  and  expedition. 

There  was  no  confusion,  no  noise.     The  square  was 

195 


THE   TRUANTS 

formed  about  the  well — the  camels  were  knee-haltered 
in  the  middle,  the  guns  placed  at  the  corners.  But  it 
was  still  dark.  A  few  shots  were  fired  on  the  dunes, 
and  the  sentries  came  running  back. 

"Steady,"  cried  Captain  Tavernay.  "They  are 
coming.     Fire  low!" 

The  first  volley  rang  out,  and  immediately  afterwards 
on  every  side  of  that  doomed  square  the  impact  of  the 
Touaregs'  charge  fell  like  the  blow  of  some  monstrous 
hammer.  All  night  they  had  been  gathering  noise- 
lessly in  the  surrounding  valleys.  Now  they  had 
charged  with  lance  and  sword  from  the  surrounding 
crests.  Three  sides  of  the  square  held  their  ground. 
The  fourth  wavered,  crumpled  in  like  a  piece  of  broken 
card-board,  and  the  Arabs  were  within  the  square  stab- 
bing at  the  backs  of  the  soldiers,  loosing  and  stamped- 
ing the  camels.  And  at  once  where  deep  silence  had 
reigned  a  minute  ago  the  air  was  torn  with  shrill  cries 
and  oaths  and  the  clamor  of  weapons.  The  square 
was  broken;  but  here  a  group  of  men  stood  back  to 
back  and  with  cartridge  and  bayonet  held  its  ground; 
there  another  formed;  and  about  each  gun  the  men 
fought  desperately.  Meanwhile  the  morning  came,  a 
gray,  clear  light  spread  over  the  desert.  Tavernay 
himself  was  with  one  of  the  machine-guns.  It  was 
dragged  clear  of  the  melee  and  up  a  slope  of  sand.  The 
soldiers  parted  in  front  of  it,  and  its  charge  began  to 
sweep  the  Touaregs  down  like  swaths,  and  to  pit  the 
sand-hills  like  a  fall  of  rain.  About  the  second  gun  the 
fight  still  raged. 

"Come,  my  children,"  said  Tavernay.  "Fight  well. 
The  Touaregs  give  no  quarter." 

Followed  by  vStretton  he  led  the  charge.  The 
Touaregs  gave   wa}''   before   their  furious   onslaught. 

196 


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O 


THE   TRUANTS 

The  soldiers  reached  the  gun,  faced  about,  and  firing 
steadily  kept  off  the  enemy  while  the  gun  was  run 
back.  As  soon  as  that  was  saved  the  battle  was  over. 
All  over  the  hollow,  wherever  the  Touaregs  were 
massed,  the  two  guns  rattled  out  their  canister.  No 
Arab  could  approach  them.  The  sun  rose  over  the 
earth,  and  while  it  was  rising  the  Touaregs  broke  and 
fled.  When  it  shone  out  in  its  full  round  there  was 
no  one  left  of  them  in  that  hollow  except  the  wounded 
and  the  dead.  But  the  victory  had  been  dearly  bought. 
All  about  the  well,  lying  pell-mell  among  the  Arabs 
and  the  dead  camels,  were  the  French  Legionaries, 
some  quite  still  and  others  writhing  in  pain  and  crying 
for  water.  Stretton  drew  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head. He  was  stunned  and  dazed.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  years  had  passed,  that  he  had  grown  very  old. 
Yet  there  was  the  sun  new-risen.  There  was  a  dull 
pain  in  his  head.  He  raised  his  hand  and  drew  it 
away  wet  with  blood.  How  or  when  he  had  received 
the  blow  he  was  quite  unaware.  He  stood  staring 
stupidly  about  him.  So  very  little  while  ago  men 
were  lying  here  sleeping  in  their  cloaks,  quite  strong, 
living  people;  now  they  were  lying  dead  or  in  pain;  it 
was  all  incomprehensible. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  aloud,  of  no  one.  "Now,  why?" 
Gradually,  however,  custom  resumed  its  power. 
There  was  a  man  hanging  limp  over  the  parapet  of 
the  well.  He  looked  as  though  he  had  knelt  down 
and  stooped  over  to  drink,  and  in  that  attitude  had 
fallen  asleep.  But  he  might  so  easily  be  pushed  into 
the  well,  and  custom  had  made  the  preservation  of 
wells  from  impurity  an  instinct.  He  removed  the 
body  and  went  in  search  of  Tavernay.  Tavernay  was 
sitting  propped  up  against  a  camel's  saddle;  the  doctor 

197 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  by  his  side;  a  blood-stained  bandage  was  about 
his  thigh.      He  spoke  in  a  weak  voice. 

"Lieutenant  Laurent?" 

Stretton  went  in  search.  He  came  across  an  old, 
gray-headed  soldier  rolling  methodically  a  cigarette. 

"He  is  dead,  over  there,"  said  the  soldier.  "Have 
you  a  light?" 

Laurent  was  lying  clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  dead 
Touareg.  He  had  been  stabbed  by  a  lance  in  the 
back.  One  of  the  sous-lieutenants  was  killed,  the 
other  dangerously  wounded.  A  sergeant-major  lay 
with  a  broken  shoulder  beside  one  of  the  guns.  Stret- 
ton went  back  to  Tavernay. 

"You  must  take  command,  then,"  said  Tavernay. 
"I  think  you  have  learned  something  about  it  on 
your  fishing-boats."  And  in  spite  of  his  pain  he 
smiled. 

Stretton  mustered  the  men  and  called  over  the 
names.  Of  the  two  hundred  and  thirty  men  who  had 
made  up  the  two  companies  of  the  legion  only  forty- 
seven  could  stand  in  the  ranks  and  answer  to  their 
names.  For  those  forty-seven  there  was  herculean 
work  to  do.  Officers  were  appointed,  the  dead  bodies 
were  roughly  buried,  the  camels  collected,  litters  im- 
provised for  the  wounded,  the  goat-skins  filled  with 
water.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Stretton  came  again  to 
Tavernay. 

"We  are  ready,  sir." 

Tavernay  nodded,  and  asked  for  a  sheet  of  paper,  an 
envelope,  and  ink.  They  were  fetched  from  his  port- 
folio, and  very  slowly  and  laboriously  he  wrote  a  letter 
and  handed  it  to  Stretton. 

"Seal  it,"  he  said;  "now,  in  front  of  me." 

Stretton  obeyed. 

198 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Keep  that  letter.  If  you  get  back  to  Ouargla 
without  me  give  it  to  the  commandant  there." 

Tavemay  was  Hfted  in  a  Htter  onto  the  back  of  a 
camel,  and  the  remnant  of  the  geographical  expedition 
began  its  terrible  homeward  march.  Eight  hundred 
miles  lay  between  Bir-el-Gharamo  and  the  safety  of 
Ouargla.  The  Touaregs  hung  upon  the  rear  of  the 
force,  but  they  did  not  attack  again.  They  preferred 
another  way.  One  evening  a  solitary  Arab  drove  a 
laden  camel  into  the  bivouac.  He  was  conducted  to 
Stretton,  and  said: 

"The  Touaregs  ask  pardon  and  pray  for  peace. 
They  will  molest  you  no  more.  Indeed,  they  will  help 
you,  and  as  an  earnest  of  their  true  desire  for  your 
welfare  they  send  you  a  camel-load  of  dates." 

Stretton  accepted  the  present  and  carried  the  mes- 
sage to  Tavemay,  who  cried  at  once,  "Let  no  one  eat 
those  dates."  But  two  soldiers  had  already  eaten  of 
them  and  died  of  poison  before  the  morning.  Short  of 
food,  short  of  sentinels,  the  broken  force  crept  back 
across  the  stretches  of  soft  sand,  the  grayish-green 
plains  of  halfa-grass,  the  ridges  of  red  hill.  One  by 
one  the  injured  succumbed;  their  wounds  gangrened; 
they  were  tortured  by  the  burning  sun  and  the  motion 
of  the  camels.  A  halt  would  be  made,  a  camel  made  to 
kneel,  and  a  rough  grave  dug. 

"Pelissier!"  cried  Stretton,  and  a  soldier  stepped  out 
from  the  ranks  who  had  once  conducted  mass  in  the 
church  of  the  Madeleine  in  Paris.  Pelissier  would  re- 
cite such  prayers  as  he  remembered,  and  the  force 
would  move  on  again,  leaving  one  more  soldier's  grave 
behind  it  in  the  desert  to  protest  unnoticed  against  the 
economy  of  governments.  Then  came  a  morning  when 
Stretton  was  summoned  to  Captain  Tavemay 's  side. 

199 


THE   TRUANTS 

For  two  days  Tavemay  had  tossed  in  a  delirium.  He 
now  lay  in  a  rough  shelter  of  cloaks,  in  his  right  senses, 
but  so  weak  that  he  could  not  lift  a  hand  and  with  a 
face  so  pinched  and  drawn  that  his  years  seemed  to 
have  been  doubled.  His  eyes  shone  out  from  big, 
black  circles.     Stretton  knelt  down  beside  him. 

"You  have  the  letter?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  not  forget." 

He  lay  for  a  while  in  a  sort  of  contentment ;  then  he 
said: 

"Do  not  think  this  expedition  has  been  waste.  A 
small  force  first  and  disaster  .  .  .  the  big  force  after- 
wards to  retrieve  the  disaster,  and  with  it  victory,  and 
government,  and  peace,  and  a  new  country  won  for 
France.  That  is  the  law  of  the  legion.  .  .  .  My  legion." 
He  smiled,  and  Stretton  muttered  a  few  insincere 
words. 

"You  will  recover,  my  captain.  You  will  lead  your 
companies  again." 

"No,"  said  Tavemay,  in  a  whisper.  " I  do  not  want 
to.  I  am  very  happy.  Yes,  I  say  that  who  joined  the 
legion  twenty  years  ago.  And  the  legion,  my  friend, 
is  the  nation  of  the  unhappy.  For  twenty  years  I  have 
been  a  citizen  of  that  nation.  ...  I  pity  women  who 
have  no  such  nation  to  welcome  them  and  find  them 
work.  .  .  .  For  us  there  is  no  need  of  pity." 

And  in  a  few  moments  he  fell  asleep,  and  two  hours 
later,  sleeping,  died.  A  pile  of  stone  was  built  above 
his  grave,  and  the  force  marched  on.  Gaunt,  starved, 
and  ragged,  the  men  marched  northward,  leaving  the 
Touat  country  upon  their  left  hand.  It  struck  the 
caravan  route  from  Tidikelt  to  Ouargla;  it  stumbled 
at  last  through  the  gates  of  the  town.     Silently  it 

200 


THE   TRUANTS 

marched  through  the  streets  to  the  French  fortress. 
On  no  survivor's  face  was  there  any  sign  of  joy  that  at 
last  their  hardships  were  over,  their  safety  assured. 
All  were  too  tired,  too  dispirited.  The  very  people 
who  crowded  to  see  them  pass  seemed  part  of  an  unin- 
teresting show.  Stretton  went  at  once  to  the  com- 
mandant and  told  him  the  story  of  their  disaster. 
Then  he  handed  him  the  letter.  The  commandant 
broke  the  seal  and  read  it  through. 

"Tell  me  how  and  when  this  was  written." 

Stretton  obeyed,  and  after  he  had  heard  the  com- 
mandant sat  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes.  When  he 
spoke,  his  voice  showed  that  he  was  deeply  moved. 

"You  know  what  the  letter  contains,  Sergeant 
Ohlsen?" 

"No,  my  commandant." 

"Read,  then,  for  yourself,"  and  he  passed  the  letter 
across  his  office  table.  Stretton  took  it  and  read. 
There  were  a  few  lines  written,  only  a  few,  but  those 
few  lines  recommended  Sergeant  Ohlsen  for  promotion 
to  the  rank  of  officer.  The  commandant  held  out  his 
hand. 

"That  is  like  our  Tavernay,"  he  said.  " He  thought 
always  of  his  soldiers.  He  wrote  it  at  once,  you  see, 
after  the  battle  was  over  lest  he  should  die  and  justice 
not  be  done.  Have  no  fear,  my  friend.  It  is  you  who 
have  brought  back  to  Ouargla  the  survivors  of  the 
legion." 


XIX 
THE   TURNPIKE   GATE 

IT  was  not,  however,  only  Millie  Stretton  whose  fort- 
unes were  touched  by  Tony's  absence.  Warrisden, 
whom  Stretton  had  met  but  the  once  on  board  the 
City  of  Bristol,  was  no  less  affected.  On  a  day  of  that 
summer  during  which  Tony  camped  far  away  on  the 
edge  of  the  Sahara,  Warrisden  rode  down  the  steep 
hill  from  the  village  of  the  three  poplars  on  his  way  to 
Whitewebs.  Once  Pamela  had  ridden  along  this  road 
between  the  white  wood  rails  and  the  black  bare  stems 
of  trees  on  a  winter's  evening  of  mist.  That  was  more 
than  fifteen  months  ago.  The  brown  furrows  in  the 
fields  were  now  acres  of  waving  yellow;  each  black 
clump  was  now  an  ambuscade  of  green,  noisy  with 
birds.  The  branches  creaked  in  a  light  wind  and 
rippled  and  shook  the  sunhght  from  their  leaves,  the 
road  glistened  like  chalk.  It  was  ten  o'clock  on  an 
August  morning,  very  clear  and  light.  Voices  from 
far  away  among  the  corn  sounded  tiny  and  distinct, 
like  voices  heard  through  a  telephone.  Round  this 
bend  at  the  thicket  corner  Pamela  had  disappeared  on 
that  dim,  gray  evening.  How  far  had  she  since  travel- 
led on  the  new  road,  Warrisden  wondered.  She  was 
at  Whitewebs  now.  He  was  riding  thither  to  find  out. 
When  he  inquired  for  her  at  the  door,  he  was  at  once 
led  through  the  house  into  the  big  garden  at  the  back. 
Pamela  was  sitting  in  a  chair  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn 

202 


THE   TRUANTS 

under  the  shade  of  the  great  avenue  of  elms  which 
ran  straight  from  the  back  of  the  house  to  the  shallow 
stream  at  the  garden's  boundary.  She  saw  him  at 
once  as  he  came  out  from  the  glass  door  on  to  the 
gravel,  and  she  rose  from  her  chair.  She  did  not  ad- 
vance to  him,  but  just  stood  where  she  was,  watching 
him  approach;  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  great  per- 
plexity. Warrisden  came  straight  to  her  over  the 
lawn.  There  was  no  hesitation  in  his  manner,  at  all 
events.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  air  of  as- 
surance. He  came  with  a  definite  object;  so  much 
was  evident,  but  no  more.  He  stopped  in  front  of 
her  and  raised  his  hat.  Pamela  looked  at  him  and 
said  nothing.  She  did  not  even  give  him  her  hand. 
She  stood  and  waited  almost  submissively,  with  her 
troubled  eyes  resting  quietly  on  his. 

"You  expected  me?"  he  said. 

"Yes.     I  received  your  letter  this  morning." 

"You  have  guessed  why  I  have  come?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  troubled,"  said  Warrisden. 

They  turned  and  walked  under  the  branches  into 
the  avenue.  Overhead  there  was  a  bustle  of  black- 
birds and  thrushes;  a  gardener  sharpening  his  scythe 
in  the  rose-garden  made  a  little  rasping  sound.  Over 
all  the  lawn  the  August  sunlight  lay  warm  and  golden 
like  a  benediction. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  the  old  question,"  said 
Warrisden.     "Will  you  marry  me?" 

Pamela  gazed  steadily  ahead  as  she  walked,  and  she 
walked  very  slowly.  She  was  prepared  for  the  ques- 
tion, yet  she  took  her  time  to  answer  it.  And  the 
answer  when  at  last  she  gave  it  was  no  answer  at  all. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  clear  voice. 

203 


THE   TRUANTS 

Warrisden  looked  at  her.  The  profile  of  her  face 
was  towards  him.  He  wondered  for  the  thousandth 
time  at  its  beauty  and  its  gentleness.  The  broad, 
white  forehead  under  the  sweep  of  her  dark  hair,  the 
big,  dark  eyes  shining  beneath  her  brows,  the  delicate 
color  upon  her  cheeks,  the  curve  of  the  lips.  He 
wondered  and  longed.  But  he  spoke  simply  and  with- 
out extravagance,  knowing  that  he  would  be  under- 
stood. 

"I  have  done  nothing  for  you  of  the  things  men 
often  do  when  a  woman  comes  into  their  lives.  I  have 
tried  to  make  no  career.  I  think  there  are  enough 
people  making  careers.  They  make  the  world  very 
noisy,  and  they  raise  a  deal  of  dust.  I  have  just  gone 
on  living  quietly  as  I  did  before,  believing  you  would 
need  no  such  proof." 

"I  do  not,"  said  Pamela. 

"There  might  be  much  happiness  for  both  of  us," 
he  continued.  And  again  she  answered,  without  look- 
ing at  him, 

"I  do  not  know." 

She  was  not  evading  him.  Evasions,  indeed,  were 
never  to  her  liking;  and  here,  she  was  aware,  were 
very  serious  issues. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  you  a  great  deal,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  tell  you  this.  There  is  no  one  else. 
But  that  is  not  all.  I  can  say,  too,  I  think,  quite  cer- 
tainly, that  there  will  be  no  one  else.  Only  that  is 
not  enough,  is  it  ?  Not  enough,  at  all  events,  for  you 
and  me." 

Warrisden  nodded  his  head. 

"No,  that  is  not  enough,"  he  said,  gravely. 

They  walked  on  side  by  side  in  silence  for  a  little 
while. 

204 


THE   TRUANTS 

"It  is  only  fair  that  I  should  be  very  frank  with 
you,"  she  went  on.  "I  have  been  thinking  so  much 
about  you  in  order  that  when  you  came  again  with 
this  old  question,  as  I  knew  you  would,  I  might  be 
quite  clear  and  frank.  Do  3'ou  remember  that  you 
once  spoke  to  me  about  the  turnpike  gate — the  gate 
which  I  was  to  open  and  through  which  I  was  to  go, 
like  other  men  and  women,  down  the  appointed  road  ?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"You  meant,  as  I  understand  it,  the  gate  between 
friendship  and  the  ever  so  much  more  which  lies  be- 
yond?" 

"Yes." 

And  Pamela  repeated  his  word.  "Yes,"  she  said. 
"But  one  cannot  open  that  gate  at  will.  It  opens  of 
itself  at  a  touch,  or  it  stays  shut." 

"And  it  stays  shut  now?" 

Pamela  answered  him  at  once. 

"Say,  rather,  that  I  have  raised  a  hand  towards 
the  gate,  but  that  I  am  afraid  to  try."  And  she  turned 
her  face  to  him  at  last.     Her  eyes  were  very  wistful. 

They  stopped  upon  the  grass  bank  of  the  stream  at 
the  end  of  the  avenue.  Pamela  looked  down  into  the 
dark,  swiftly  running  water,  and  went  on  choosing 
each  word,  testing  it,  as  it  were,  before  she  uttered  it. 

"You  see,  that  new  road  beyond  the  gate  is  no  new 
road  to  me.  I  have  trodden  it  before  and  crept  back 
— broken.  Therefore,  I  am  afraid."  She  paused. 
Warrisden  was  aware  from  her  attitude  that  she  had 
not  finished.  He  did  not  stir  lest  he  should  check 
what  more  remained  to  say,  and  that  remnant  never 
be  spoken  at  all.  And  it  was  well  for  him  that  he 
did  not  stir;  for  she  said,  in  the  same  clear,  low  voice 
which  she  had  hitherto  used,  and  just  as  steadily, 

205 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  am  the  more  afraid  because  I  think  that  if  I  did 
touch  that  gate  it  might  open  of  itself." 

She  had  begun,  in  a  word,  to  feel  premonitions  of 
that  suspense  and  of  that  glowing  life  in  which  for  a 
few  brief  months  she  had  once  been  steeped.  Did  she 
expect  a  letter  from  Warrisden,  there  was  an  eagerness 
in  her  anticipation  with  which  she  was  well  familiar. 
Was  the  letter  delayed,  there  was  a  keenness  in  her 
disappointment  which  was  like  the  pang  of  an  old 
wound.  And  this  recognition  that  the  good  days 
might  come  again,  as  in  a  cycle,  brought  to  her  very 
vividly  the  memory  of  the  bad,  black  days  which  had 
followed.  Fear  of  those  latter  days,  and  the  contrast 
of  their  number  with  the  number  of  those  which  had 
gone  before,  drove  her  back.  For  those  latter  days  in 
their  turn  might  come  round  again. 

Warrisden  looked  at  her  and  his  heart  filled  with  pity 
for  the  great  trouble  which  had  overwhelmed  her.  She 
stood  by  his  side  with  the  sunlight  playing  upon  her 
face  and  her  hair — a  girl  brilliant  with  life,  ripe  to  turn 
its  possibilities  into  facts;  and  she  shrank  from  the 
ordeal,  so  hardly  had  she  been  hit!  She  was  by  nature 
fearless,  yet  was  she  desperately  afraid. 

"Will  nothing  make  you  touch  the  gate  and  try?" 
he  asked,  gently.  And  then,  quietly  as  he  spoke,  the 
greatness  of  his  longing  made  itself  heard.  "My  dear, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  "will  nothing  make  you  take  your 
risks?" 

The  words  struck  sharply  upon  her  memories.  She 
turned  her  eyes  to  him. 

"It  is  strange  that  you  should  use  those  words," 
she  said.  "For  there  is  one  thing  which  might  make 
me  take  my  risks.  The  return  of  the  man  who  used 
them  to  you  in  the  North  Sea." 

206 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Tony  Stretton?"  exclaimed  Warrisden. 

"Yes.  He  is  still  away.  It  is  said  that  he  is  on  a 
long  shooting  expedition  somewhere  in  Central  Africa, 
and  out  of  reach.  But  that  is  not  the  truth.  We  do 
not  know  where  he  is,  or  when  he  will  come  back." 

"Shall  I  try  to  find  him  again?"  said  Warrisden. 
"This  time  I  might  succeed  in  bringing  him  home." 

Pamela  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  think  I  know  why  he  stays 
away.  And  there  would  be  only  one  way  of  persuad- 
ing him  to  return.  Well — that  means  I  must  not  use, 
unless  things  have  come  to  an  extremity." 

The  one  means  of  persuasion  was  the  truth.  If  she 
sent  for  Tony  Stretton  again  she  must  explain  what 
that  saying  of  hers  spoken  so  long  ago  had  meant. 
She  must  write  why  he  should  not  have  left  his  wife. 
She  must  relate  the  sordid  story,  which  rendered  his 
return  imperative.  That  she  was  prepared  to  do,  if 
all  else  failed,  in  the  last  resort,  but  not  till  then. 

"  But  the  extremity  has  not  been  reached,"  she  con- 
tinued, "and  I  hope  it  never  will.  I  hope  Tony  Stret- 
ton will  come  back  soon  of  his  own  accord.  That 
would  be  the  best  thing  which  could  happen,  ever  so 
much  the  best."  She  did  not  blame  Tony  for  his  ab- 
sence, for  she  understood  the  motive  which  caused  it. 
In  a  way  she  was  inclined  to  approve  of  it  in  itself,  just 
as  a  motive — that  is  to  say.  It  was  the  character  of 
Milhe  Stretton  and  his  ignorance  of  it  which  made  his 
experiment  so  hazardous.  Complete  confidence  in  his 
wife's  honor,  indeed,  was  to  her  thinking,  and  rightly, 
an  essential  part  of  his  motive.  She  wished  him  to 
return  of  his  own  accord  and  keep  that  confidence. 

"There  is  not  the  same  necessity,"  she  continued, 
choosing  her  words,  "that  he  should  return  immediate- 

207 


THE  TRUANTS 

ly  as  there  was  when  I  sent  you  out  to  the  North  Sea ; 
but  it  is  possible  that  the  necessity  might  recur." 
For  she  knew  that,  though  Gallon  was  far  away  in 
Chile,  letters  came  from  him  to  Millie.  Only  lately  a 
careless  remark  of  Millie's  with  reference  to  that  state 
had  assured  her  of  this.  And  if  the  letters  still  came, 
though  Gallon  had  been  away  a  year,  it  followed  that 
they  were  answered. 

"In  that  case  you  would  send  for  me?"  said  Warris- 
den. 

"Yes.     I  should  rely  on  you." 

And  Warrisden  answered,  quietly,  "Thank  you." 

He  asked  no  questions.  He  seemed  to  understand 
that  Pamela  must  use  him,  and,  while  using  him,  not 
fail  of  loyalty  to  her  sex.  A  feeling  of  self-reproach 
suddenly  troubled  Pamela.  She  had  never  told  him 
that  she  had  used  another's  help  and  not  his.  She 
wondered  whether  it  was  quite  fair  not  to  tell  him. 
But  she  kept  silent.  After  all,  she  thought,  the  news 
would  only  hurt  him;  and  Mr.  Mudge's  help  had  been 
help  which  he  could  not  have  given.  She  went  back 
to  the  matter  of  their  relationship  to  each  other. 

"So  you  understand  what  I  think,"  she  said.  "I 
am  afraid.  I  look  for  signs.  I  cannot  help  doing  that. 
I  have  set  my  heart  on  keeping  a  promise  which  I  made 
to  Tony  Stretton.  If  he  returns,  whether  of  his  own 
accord  or  by  my  persuasion,  and  things  go  well — 
why,  then" — and  she  turned  her  face  from  him  and 
said,  looking  steadily  in  front  of  her — "why,  then, 
perhaps." 

As  she  spoke  her  face  changed  wonderfully.  The 
mere  utterance  of  the  word  aloud  conjured  up  dreams. 
A  wistful  smile  made  her  lips  beautiful ;  her  eyes  grew 
dim.     Just  for  a  moment  she  gave  those  dreams  their 

208 


THE   TRUANTS 

way.  She  looked  across  the  garden  through  a  mist, 
seeing  nothing  of  the  trees  or  the  colored  flowers,  but 
gazing  into  a  vision  of  other  and  golden  days — of  days 
perhaps  to  come.  Warrisden  stood  at  her  side  and 
did  not  speak.  But  something  of  those  dreams  he 
guessed,  her  face  had  grown  so  young. 

She  shook  her  dreams  from  her  in  a  few  moments. 

"So  you  see,  at  present,"  she  resumed,  "marriage  is 
impossible.  It  will  always  be  impossible  to  me  unless 
I  can  bring — everything,  not  merely  companionship, 
not  merely  liking;  but  the  ever  so  much  more  which 
there  is.  I  cannot  contemplate  it  at  all  under  any 
other  conditions" — and  now  she  looked  at  her  com- 
panion— "and  I  believe  it  is  the  same  with  you." 

"Yes,"  Warrisden  replied,  "I  ask  for  everything." 

He  had  his  convictions,  and  since  there  was  complete 
confidence  between  these  two,  he  spoke  them  now. 

"It  is  unsafe,  of  course,  to  generalize  on  the  subject 
of  women.  But  I  do  think  this.  If  a  man  asks  little 
from  a  woman,  she  will  give  him  even  less  than  he  asks, 
and  she  will  give  it  grudgingly,  sparingly,  counting 
what  she  gives.  And  that  little,  to  my  mind,  is  worth 
rather  less  than  nothing.  Better  have  no  ties  than 
weak  ones.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  asks  a  great 
deal,  and  continually  asks  it,  why,  the  woman  may  get 
bored,  and  he  may  get  nothing.  In  which  case  he  is 
no  worse  off  than  he  was  before.  But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  woman  does  give  in  return — " 

"Well?"  asked  Pamela. 

"Well,  then,  she  gives  ever  so  much  more  than  he 
asks,  and  gives  it  willingly,  with  open  hands." 

Pamela  thought  the  theory  over. 

"Yes,   I   think  that  is  generally   true,"   she   said. 
"But,  after  all,  I  am  giving  you  very  little." 
14  209 


THE   TRUANTS 

Warrisden  laughed. 

"That's  true,"  he  replied.  "But  then  you  are  not 
bored,  and  I  have  not  done  asking." 

Pamela  laughed,  too,  and  their  talk  thus  ended  in  a 
lighter  note.  They  walked  towards  the  house,  and  as 
they  did  so  a  woman  came  out  onto  the  lawn. 

"This  is  Millie  Stretton,"  said  Pamela. 

"She  is  staying  here?"  cried  Warrisden. 

"Yes,"  replied  Pamela.  "Before  she  comes  I  want 
to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me.  Oh,  it  is  quite  a 
small  thing.  But  I  should  like  you  very  much  to  do  it. 
Where  do  you  go  to  from  here?" 

"To  London,"  said  Warrisden.  "I  have  business 
there." 

The  business  which  called  him  to  town  had,  indeed, 
only  occurred  to  him  during  the  last  half-hour.  It 
had  arisen  from  their  conversation.  It  seemed  to  War- 
risden immediate  and  imperative. 

"Will  you  be  in  London  to-morrow?"  asked  Pamela. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  want  you  to  write  to  me.  Just  a  little  letter 
— nothing  much,  a  line  or  two.  And  I  want  you 
to  post  it,  not  by  the  country  post,  but  afterwards,  so 
that  it  will  reach  me  in  the  evening.  Don't  write  here, 
for  I  am  going  home.     And  please  don't  forget." 

Millie  Stretton  joined  them  a  moment  afterwards, 
and  Warrisden  was  introduced  to  her. 

"I  have  had  an  offer  for  the  house  in  Berkeley 
Square,"  she  said  to  Pamela.  "I  think  I  will  take  it. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  it." 

They  went  back  into  the  house.  Warrisden  won- 
dered at  Pamela's  request  for  a  letter,  and  at  her  urg- 
ency that  it  should  arrive  at  a  particular  time.  He  was 
not  discontented  with  the  walk  which  they  had  taken 

210 


THE   TRUANTS 

under  the  avenue  of  elms.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Pamela  was  coming  slowly  towards  him.  There  was  a 
great  difference  between  her  "  No  "  of  last  year  and  her 
"I  do  not  know"  of  to-day.  Even  that  "I  do  not 
know"  while  they  talked  had  become  "perhaps." 
Had  she  not  owned  even  more,  since  she  was  afraid  the 
gate  would  open  of  itself  did  she  but  touch  and  try  ? 
His  hopes,  therefore,  rode  high  that  day,  and  would 
have  ridden  yet  higher  could  he  have  guessed  why  she 
so  desired  a  few  lines  in  his  handwriting  in  the  evening 
of  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

The  reason  was  this.  Repairs,  long  needed,  had  at 
last  been  undertaken  in  the  house  of  Pamela's  father, 
a  few  miles  away,  and  those  repairs  involved  the  rooms 
reserved  for  Pamela.  There  were  certain  drawers  in 
that  room  which  had  not  been  unlocked  for  years,  and 
of  which  Pamela  sedulously  guarded  the  keys.  They 
held  letters,  a  few  small  presents,  one  or  two  photo- 
graphs, and  some  insignificant  trifles  which  could  not 
be  valued,  since  their  value  depended  only  on  their  as- 
sociations. There  were,  for  instance,  some  cheap  red 
beads,  and  the  history  of  those  beads  tells  all  that  need 
be  said  of  the  contents  of  those  locked  drawers. 

Two  hundred  years  before  a  great,  full-rigged  ship, 
bound  with  a  general  cargo  for  the  Guinea  coast,  sailed 
down  the  Channel  out  of  Portsmouth.  Among  the 
cargo  was  a  great  store  of  these  red  beads.  The  beads 
were  to  buy  slaves  for  the  plantations.  But  the  great 
ship  got  no  farther  on  her  voyage  than  Bigbury  Bay 
in  Devonshire.  She  damaged  her  rudder  in  a  storm, 
and  the  storm  swept  her  onto  the  bleak  rocks  of  Bolt 
Tail,  dragged  her  back  again  into  the  welter  of  the  sea, 
drove  her  into  Bigbury  Bay,  and  flung  her  up  there 
against  the  low,  red  cliffs,  where  all  her  crew  perished. 

211 


THE   TRUANTS 

The  cargo  was  spilled  among  the  breakers,  and  the  shores 
of  that  bay  were  littered  with  red  beads.  You  may 
pick  them  up  to  this  day  among  the  pebbles.  There 
Pamela  had  picked  them  up  on  a  hot  August  morning, 
very  like  to  that  which  now  dreamed  over  this  green, 
quiet  garden  of  Leicestershire;  and  when  she  had 
picked  them  up  she  had  not  been  alone.  The  locked 
cabinets  held  all  the  relics  which  remained  to  her  from 
those  few  bright  weeks  in  Devon;  and  the  mere  touch 
of  any  one,  however  trifling,  would  have  magic  to 
quicken  her  memories.  Yet  now  the  cabinets  must  be 
unlocked  and  all  that  was  in  them  removed.  There  was 
a  bad  hour  waiting  for  Pamela  when  she  would  remove 
these  relics  one  by  one — the  faded  letters  in  the  hand- 
writing which  she  would  never  see  again  on  any  enve- 
lope; the  photograph  of  the  face  which  could  exchange 
no  look  with  her;  the  little  presents  from  the  hand 
which  could  touch  hers  no  more.  It  would  be  a  relief, 
she  thought,  to  come  down-stairs  when  that  necessary 
work  was  done,  that  bad  hour  over,  and  find  a  letter 
from  Warrisden  upon  the  table.  Just  a  few  lines. 
She  needed  nothing  more. 


XX 

mr:  chase  does  not  answer 

BOTH  Pamela  and  Millie  Stretton  walked  with  War- 
risden  through  the  hall  to  the  front  door.  Upon 
the  hall  table  letters  were  lying.  Pamela  glanced  at 
them  as  she  passed,  and  caught  one  up  rather  suddenly. 
Then  she  looked  at  Warrisden,  and  there  was  some- 
thing of  appeal  in  her  look.  It  was  as  though  she 
turned  to  a  confederate  on  whom  she  could  surely 
rely.  But  she  said  nothing,  since  Millie  Stretton  was 
at  her  side.  For  the  letter  was  in  the  handwriting  of 
Mr.  Mudge,  who  wrote  but  rarely,  and  never  without  a 
reason.  She  read  the  letter  in  the  garden  as  soon  as 
Warrisden  had  ridden  off,  and  the  news  which  it  con- 
tained was  bad  news.  Gallon  had  lived  frugally  in 
South  America — by  Christmas  he  would  have  dis- 
charged his  debts;  and  he  had  announced  to  Mudge 
that  he  intended  at  that  date  to  resign  his  appoint- 
ment. There  were  still  four  months,  Pamela  reflected 
— nay,  counting  the  journey  home,  five  months;  and 
within  that  time  Tony  Stretton  might  reappear.  If 
he  did  not,  why,  she  could  summon  Warrisden  to  her 
aid.  She  looked  at  Millie,  who  was  reading  a  book  in 
a  garden  chair  close  by.  Did  she  know,  Pamela  won- 
dered ?     But  Millie  gave  no  sign. 

Meanwhile,  Warrisden  travelled  to  London  upon 
that  particular  business  which  made  a  visit  there  in 
August  so  imperative.     It  had  come  upon  him  while 

213 


THE   TRUANTS 

he  had  been  talking  with  Pamela  that  it  would  be 
as  well  for  him  to  know  the  whereabouts  of  Tony 
Stretton  at  once;  so  that  if  the  need  came  he  should 
be  ready  to  set  out  upon  the  instant.  On  the  follow- 
ing evening,  accordingly,  he  drove  down  to  Stepney. 
It  was  very  likely  that  Chase  would  be  away  upon  a 
holiday.  But  there  was  a  chance  that  he  might  find 
him  clinging  to  his  work  through  this  hot  August,  a 
chance  worth  the  trouble  of  his  journey.  He  drove 
to  the  house  where  Chase  lodged,  thinking  to  catch 
him  before  he  set  out  for  his  evening's  work  at  the 
mission.  The  door  of  the  house  stood  open  to  the 
street.  Warrisden  dismissed  his  cab,  and  walked  up 
the  steps  into  the  narrow  hall.  A  door  upon  his  right 
hand  was  opened,  and  a  young  man  politely  asked 
Warrisden  to  step  in.  He  was  a  fair-haired  youth, 
with  glasses  upon  his  nose,  and  he  carried  a  napkin  in 
his  hand.  He  had  evidently  been  interrupted  at  his 
dinner  by  Warrisden's  arrival.  He  was  not  dining 
alone,  for  a  youth  of  the  same  standing,  but  of  a  more 
athletic  mould,  sat  at  the  table.  There  was  a  third 
place  laid,  but  not  occupied. 

Warrisden  looked  at  the  third  chair. 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Chase,"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
that  he  has  gone  early  to  the  mission?" 

"No,"  said  the  youth  who  had  opened  the  door. 
"He  has  not  been  well  of  late.  The  hot  weather  in 
these  close  streets  is  trying.  But  he  certainly  should 
have  something  'to  eat  by  now,  even  if  he  does  not 
intend  to  get  up." 

He  spoke  in  a  pedantic,  self-satisfied  voice,  and  in- 
troduced himself  as  Mr.  Raphael  Princkley  and  his 
companion  as  Mr.  Jonas  Stiles,  both  undergraduates 
of  Queen's  College,  Oxford. 

214 


THE   TRUANTS 

"We  are  helping  Chase  in  his  work,"  continued  Mr. 
Princkley.  "It  is  little  we  can  do,  but  you  are  no 
doubt  acquainted  with  the  poetry  of  Robert  Browning — 

"  'The  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is.' 

In  that  line  we  find  our  justification." 

The  fair-haired  youth  rang  the  bell  for  the  house- 
keeper. She  was  an  old  woman,  fat  and  slow,  and  she 
took  her  time  in  answering  the  summons. 

"Mrs.  Wither,  have  you  called  Mr.  Chase?"  he 
asked,  when  the  old  lady  appeared  at  the  door. 

"No,  Mr.  Princkley,  sir!"  she  replied.  "You  told 
me  yesterday  evening  not  to  disturb  him  on  any  ac- 
count until  he  rang." 

Mr.   Princkley  turned  to  Warrisden. 

" Mr.  Chase  was  unwell  all  yesterday,"  he  said,  "and 
at  dinner-time  he  told  us  that  he  felt  unequal  to  his 
duties.  He  was  sitting  in  that  empty  place,  and  we 
both  advised  him  not  to  overtax  his  strength." 

He  appealed  with  a  look  to  Mr.  Stiles  for  corrobora- 
tion. 

"Yes;  we  both  advised  him,"  said  Stiles,  between 
two  mouthfuls,  "and,  very  wisely,  he  took  our  advice." 

"He  rose  from  his  chair,"  continued  Princkley. 
"There  was  some  fruit  upon  the  table.  He  took  an 
apple  from  the  dish.  I  think.  Stiles,  that  it  was  an 
apple  which  he  took?" 

Mr.  Stiles  agreed  and  went  on  with  his  dinner. 

"  It  was  certainly  an  apple  which  he  took.  He  took 
it  in  his  hand." 

"  You  hardly  expected  him  to  take  it  with  his  foot!" 
rejoined  Warrisden,  politely.  Warrisden  was  grow- 
ing a  little  restive  under  this  detailed  account  of 
Chase's  indisposition. 

215 


THE   TRUANTS 

"No,"  replied  Princkley,  with  gravity.  "He  took 
it  in  quite  a  natural  way,  and  went  up-stairs  to  his 
sitting-room.  I  gave  orders  to  Mrs.  Wither  that  he 
must  not  be  disturbed  until  he  rang.  That  is  so,  Mrs. 
Wither,  is  it  not ?     Yes.     I  thank  you." 

"That  was  yesterday  evening!"  cried  Warrisden. 

"Yesterday  evening,"  replied  Mr.  Princkley. 

"And  no  one  has  been  near  him  since?" 

Then  Mrs.  Wither  intervened. 

"Oh  yes.  I  went  into  Mr.  Chase's  room  an  hour 
afterwards.  He  was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair  before 
the  grate — " 

"  Holding  the  apple  in  his  hand,  I  think,  Mrs.  Wither, 
you  said?"  continued  Stiles. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Wither.  "  He  had  his  arm 
out  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  the  apple  was 
in  his  hand." 

"Well,  well!"  exclaimed  Warrisden. 

"I  told  him  that  I  would  not  call  him  in  the  morn- 
ing until  he  rang,  as  he  wanted  a  good  rest." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Warrisden. 

"Nothing,  sir.  As  often  as  not  he  does  not  answer 
when  he  is  spoken  to." 

A  sudden  fear  seized  upon  Warrisden.  He  ran  out 
of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs  to  Chase's  sitting-room. 
He  knocked  on  the  door;  there  was  no  answer.  He 
turned  the  handle  and  entered.  Chase  had  not  gone 
to  bed  last  night.  He  was  still  sitting  in  his  arm-chair 
before  the  grate.  One  arm  was  extended  along  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  with  the  palm  turned  upward,  and 
in  the  palm  lay  an  apple.  Chase  was  sitting  huddled 
up,  with  his  head  fallen  forward  upon  his  breast  like 
a  man  asleep.  Warrisden  crossed  the  room  and  touch- 
ed the  hand  which  held  the  apple.     It  was  quite  cold. 

216 


THE   TRUANTS 

The  apple  rolled  onto  the  floor.  Warrisden  turned  to 
the  housekeeper.  She  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
and  staring  over  her  shoulder  were  the  two  under- 
graduates. 

"He  was  dead,"  said  Warrisden,  "when  you  looked 
into  the  room  an  hour  afterwards!" 

The  three  people  in  the  doorway  stood  stupidly 
aghast.  Warrisden  pushed  them  out,  locked  the  door 
on  the  outside,  and  removed  the  key. 

"Mr.  Princkley,  will  you  run  for  a  doctor  ?" he  asked. 
Princkley  nodded  his  head   and  went  off  upon  his 
errand. 

Warrisden  and  Stiles  descended  the  stairs  into  the 
dining-room. 

"I  think  you  had  better  take  the  news  to  the  mis- 
sion," said  Warrisden;  and  Stiles  in  his  turn  went  off 
without  a  word.     Mrs.  Wither,  for  her  part,  had  run 
out  of  the  house  as  quickly  as  she  could.     She  hardly 
knew  what  she  was  doing      She  had  served  as  house- 
keeper to  Mr.  Chase  ever  since  he  had  come  to  Stepney, 
and  she  was  dazed  by  the  sudden  calamity.     She  was 
aware  of  a  need  to  talk,  to  find  the  neighbors  and  talk. 
Warrisden  was  thus  left  alone  in  the  house.     It  had 
come  about  without  any  premeditation  upon  his  part. 
He  was  the  oldest  man  of  the  three  who  had  been 
present,  and  the  only  one  who  had  kept  his  wits  clear. 
Both  Princkley  and  Stiles  had  looked  to  him  to  decide 
what  must  be  done.     They  regarded  him  as  Chase's 
friend,   whereas   they   were  mere   acquaintances.     It 
did  not  even  occur  to  Warrisden  at  first  that  he  was 
alone  in  the  house,  that  he  held  in  his  hand  the  key  to 
Chase's  room.     He  was  thinking  of  the  strange,  per- 
plexing Hfe  which  had  now  so  strangely  ended.     He 
thought  of  his  first  meeting  with  Chase  in  the  mission, 

217 


THE   TRUANTS 

and  of  the  distaste  which  he  had  felt ;  he  remembered 
the  array  of  Hqueur  bottles  on  the  table,  and  the  half- 
hour  during  which  Chase  had  talked.  A  man  of  mor- 
bid pleasures,  that  had  been  Warrisden's  impression. 
Yet  there  were  the  years  of  work,  here,  among  these 
squalid  streets.  Even  August  had  seen  him  clinging 
to  —  nay,  dying  at  —  his  work.  As  Warrisden  looked 
out  of  the  window  he  saw  a  group  of  men  and  women 
and  children  gather  outside  the  house.  There  was  not 
a  face  but  wore  a  look  of  consternation.  If  they  spoke 
they  spoke  in  whispers,  like  people  overawed.  A  very 
strange  life!  Warrisden  knew  many  —  as  who  does 
not? — who  saw  the  high-road  distinctly,  and  could  not 
for  the  life  of  them  but  walk  upon  the  low  one.  But 
to  use  both  deliberately,  as  it  seemed  Chase  had  done; 
to  dip  from  the  high  road  onto  the  low,  and  then  pain- 
fully to  scramble  up  again,  and  again  willingly  to  drop, 
as  though  the  air  of  those  stern  heights  were  too  rig- 
orous for  continuous  walking;  to  live  the  double  life 
because  he  could  not  entirely  live  the  one  and  would 
not  entirely  live  the  other.  Thus  Warrisden  solved 
the  problem  of  the  dilettante  curate  and  his  devotion 
to  his  work,  and  his  solution  was  correct. 

But  he  held  the  key  of  Chase's  room  in  his  hand; 
and  there  was  no  one  but  himself  in  the  house.  His 
thoughts  came  back  to  Pamela  and  the  object  of  his 
journey  up  to  town.  He  was  sorely  tempted  to  use 
the  key,  since  now  the  means  by  which  he  had  hoped 
to  discover  in  what  quarter  of  the  world  Stretton 
wandered  and  was  hid  were  tragically  closed  to  him. 
Chase  could  no  longer  speak,  even  if  he  would.  Very 
likely  there  were  letters  up-stairs  lying  on  the  table. 
There  might  be  one  from  Tony  Stretton.  Warrisden 
did  not  want  to  read  it — a  mere  glance  at  the  post- 
218 


THE   TRUANTS 

mark  and  at  the  foreign  stamp  upon  the  envelope. 
Was  that  so  great  a  crime?  Warrisden  was  sorely 
tempted.  If  only  he  could  be  sure  that  Chase  would 
a  second  time  have  revealed  what  he  was  bidden  to 
keep  hid,  why,  then,  would  it  not  be  just  the  same 
thing  as  if  Chase  were  actually  speaking  with  his 
lips?  Warrisden  played  with  the  key.  He  went  to 
the  door  and  listened.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the 
house  except  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  The  front  door 
still  stood  open.  He  must  be  quick  if  he  meant  to 
act.  Warrisden  turned  to  the  stairs.  The  thought 
of  the  dead  man  huddled  in  the  chair,  a  silent  guar- 
dian of  the  secret,  weighted  his  steps.  Slowly  he 
mounted.  Such  serious  issues  hung  upon  his  gaining 
this  one  piece  of  knowledge!  The  fortunes  of  four 
people— Pamela  and  himself,  Tony  Stretton  and  his 
wife — might  all  be  straightened  out  if  he  only  did 
this  one  thing,  which  he  had  no  right  to  do.  He 
would  not  pry  among  Chase's  papers;  he  would  merely 
glance  at  the  table,  that  was  all.  He  heard  voices  in 
the  hall  while  he  was  still  upon  the  stairs.  He  turned 
back  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  stood  Mr.  Princkley  and  the 
doctor.  Warrisden  handed  the  key  of  the  room  to  the 
latter,  and  the  three  men  went  up.  The  doctor  opened 
the  door  and  crossed  to  the  arm-chair.  Then  he  looked 
about  the  room. 

"Nothing  has  been  touched,  of  course?" 

"Nothing,"  repHed  Warrisden. 

The  doctor  looked  again  at  the  dead  man.  Then  he 
turned  to  Warrisden,  mistaking  him,  as  the  others  had 
done,  for  some  relation  or  near  friend. 

"I  can  give  no  certificate,"  said  he. 

"There  must  be  an  inquest?" 

219 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes." 

Then  the  doctor  moved  suddenly  to  the  table,  which 
stood  a  few  feet  from  the  arm-chair.  There  was  a  de- 
canter upon  it  half  filled  with  a  liquid  like  brown 
sherry,  only  a  little  darker.  The  doctor  removed  the 
stopper  and  raised  the  decanter  to  his  nose. 

"Ah!"  said  he.  in  a  voice  of  comprehension.  He 
turned  again  to  Warrisden. 

"Did  you  know?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

The  doctor  held  the  decanter  towards  Warrisden. 
Warrisden  took  it,  moistened  the  tip  of  a  finger  with 
the  liquid,  and  tasted  it.     It  had  a  bitter  flavor. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Laudanum,"  said  the  doctor.  "An  overdose  of 
it." 

"Where  is  the  glass,  then,  in  which  it  was  taken?" 

A  tumbler  stood  upon  the  table  close  to  the  decanter 
stopper.     The  doctor  took  it  up. 

"Yes,  I  noticed  that,"  said  Warrisden;  "I  noticed 
that  it  is  clean." 

The  doctor  took  the  glass  to  the  window,  turned  it 
upsidedown,  and  held  it  to  the  light.  It  was  quite 
dry,  quite  clean. 

"Surely  it's  evident  what  happened,"  said  Warris- 
den. "Chase  came  into  the  room,  opened  that  cup- 
board door  in  the  comer  there.  His  keys  are  still 
dangling  in  the  lock.  He  took  the  decanter  and  the 
tumbler  out,  placed  them  on  the  table  at  his  side,  sat 
down  in  his  chair  with  the  apple  in  his  hand,  leaned 
back  and  quietly  died." 

"Yes.  no  doubt,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  I  think 
here  will  be  found  the  reason  why  he  leaned  back  and 
quietly  died,"  and  he  touched  the  decanter.     "Opium 

220 


THE   TRUANTS 

poisoning.  It  may  not  have  been  an  overdose,  but  a 
regular  practice."  He  went  to  the  door  and  called  for 
Mrs.  Wither.  Mrs.  Wither  had  now  returned  to  the 
house.  When  she  came  up-stairs  into  the  room,  he 
pointed  to  the  decanter. 

"Did  you  ever  see  this  before?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered. 

"Or  that  cupboard  open?" 

"No,  it  was  always  locked." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  had  better  get 
some  women  to  help  you  here,"  he  went  on;  and,  with 
Warrisden's  assistance,  he  lifted  Chase  from  the  chair 
and  carried  him  into  his  bedroom. 

"I  must  give  notice  to  the  police,"  he  went  on,  and 
again  he  appealed  to  Warrisden.  ''Do  you  mind  stay- 
ing in  the  house  till  I  come  back?" 

"  Not  at  all." 

The  doctor  locked  the  door  of  the  room  and  took  the 
key  away  with  him.  Warrisden  waited  with  Princkley 
in  the  dining-room.  The  doctor  had  taken  away  the 
key.  It  seemed  that  his  chance  of  discovering  the 
secret  which  was  of  so  much  importance  to  Pamela  and 
Millie  Stretton  and  himself  had  vanished.  If  only  he 
had  come  yesterday,  or  the  day  before!  He  sat  down 
by  the  window  and  gazed  out  upon  the  street.  A  group 
of  men  and  women  were  gathered  in  the  roadway  look- 
ing up  at  the  windows  and  talking  quietly  together. 
Then  Princkley  from  behind  said: 

"Some  letters  came  for  Chase  this  morning.  They 
were  not  taken  up  to  his  room.     You  had  better  look 

at  them." 

Every  one  took  him  for  a  close  friend.  Princkley 
brought  him  the  letters,  and  he  glanced  at  the  super- 
scriptions lest  any  one  should  wear  a  look  of  immediate 

221 


THE   TRUANTS 

importance.  He  held  the  letters  in  his  hand  and  turn- 
ed them  over  one  by  one,  and  half-way  through  the  file 
he  stopped.  He  had  come  to  a  letter  written  upon 
thin  paper,  in  a  man's  handwriting,  with  a  foreign 
stamp  upon  the  envelope.  The  stamp  was  a  French 
one,  and  there  was  printed  upon  it,  "Poste  d'Algerie." 

Warrisden  examined  the  post -mark.  The  letter  came 
from  Ain-Sefra.  Warrisden  went  on  with  his  examina- 
tion without  a  word.  But  his  heart  quickened.  He 
wondered  whether  he  had  found  the  clew.  Ain-Sefra, 
in  Algeria.  Warrisden  had  never  heard  of  the  place 
before.  It  might  be  a  health  resort,  a  wintering-place. 
But  this  was  the  month  of  August.  There  would  be 
no  visitors  at  this  time  to  a  health  resort  in  Algeria. 
He  handed  the  letters  back  to  Princkley. 

"I  cannot  tell  whether  they  are  important  or  not," 
he  said.  "  I  knew  Chase  very  slightly.  His  relations 
must  be  informed.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Wither  knows  where 
they  live." 

He  took  his  departure  as  soon  as  the  doctor  had  re- 
turned with  the  police,  and  drove  back  to  his  rooms. 
A  search  through  the  encyclopaedia  told  him  nothing 
of  Ain-Sefra;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  look 
at  the  article  on  Algeria  without  the  Foreign  Legion 
leaping  to  his  eyes  at  once — so  great  and  magnificent 
a  part  it  played  in  the  modern  history  of  that  colony. 
The  Foreign  Legion!  Warrisden  jumped  to  the  con- 
viction that  there  was  the  secret  of  Tony  Stretton's 
disappearance.  Every  reason  he  could  imagine  came 
to  his  aid.  Let  a  man  wish  to  disappear,  as,  from 
whatsoever  reason,  Tony  Stretton  did,  where  else 
could  he  so  completely  bury  himself  and  yet  live? 
Hardships  ?  Dangers  ?  Yes.  But  Tony  Stretton  had 
braved  hardships  and  dangers  in  the  North  Sea  and 

222 


THE   TRUANTS 

had  made  light  of  them.  A  detachment  of  the  For- 
eign Legion  might  well  be  stationed  at  this  oasis  of 
Ain-Sefra  of  which  his  encyclopaedia  knew  nothing. 
He  had  no  doubt  there  was  a  trooper  there,  serving 
under  some  false  name,  who  would  start  if  the  name 
of  "Stretton"  were  suddenly  shouted  to  him  behind 
his  back. 

Warrisden  wrote  no  word  of  his  conjecture  to  Pam- 
ela; he  wished  to  raise  no  hopes  which  he  could  not 
fulfil.  Convinced  as  he  was,  he  wished  for  certain 
proof.  But  in  fulfilment  of  his  promise  he  wrote  to 
Pamela  that  night.  Just  a  few  lines — nothing  more, 
as  she  had  asked.  But  in  those  few  lines  he  wrote  that 
he  would  like  her  to  procure  for  him  a  scrap  of  Tony 
Stretton's  handwriting.  Could  she  do  it?  In  a  week 
the  scrap  of  handwriting  arrived.  Warrisden,  looking 
at  it,  knew  that  the  same  hand  had  addressed  the  en- 
velope at  Ain-Sefra  to  Mr.  Chase. 

Warrisden  was  ready  now,  if  the  summons  to  service 
should  come  once  more  from  Pamela. 


XXI 
GALLON   REDIVIVUS 

ALL  through  that  autumn  Pamela  watched  for 
,  Tony's  return,  and  watched  in  vain.  Winter 
came,  and  with  the  winter  a  letter  from  Mr.  Mudge. 
Lionel  Gallon  had  booked  his  passage  home  on  a  steam- 
er which  sailed  on  Christmas  eve  from  the  port  of  Val- 
paraiso. Pamela  received  the  news  one  morning  of 
December.  She  hunted  that  day  with  the  Quorn,  and 
for  once  her  thoughts  were  set  on  other  matters  than 
this  immediate  business.  The  long  grass  meadows 
slipped  away  under  her  horse's  feet  the  while  she  pon- 
dered how  once  more  the  danger  of  Gallon's  presence 
was  to  be  averted.  At  times  she  hoped  it  would 
not  need  averting.  Gallon  had  been  eighteen  months 
away,  and  Millie  was  quick  to  forget.  But  she  was  no 
less  quick  to  respond  to  a  show  of  affection.  Let  Gallon 
lay  siege  again  persistently,  and  the  danger  at  once  was 
close.  Besides,  there  were  the  letters.  That  he  should 
have  continued  to  write  during  the  months  of  his  ab- 
sence was  a  sign  that  he  had  not  foregone  his  plan  of 
conquest. 

Pamela  returned  home  with  a  scheme  floating  in  her 
mind.  Some  words  which  her  mother  had  spoken  at 
the  breakfast -table  had  recurred  to  her,  and  at  tea 
Pamela  revived  the  subject. 

"Did  you  say  that  you  would  not  go  to  Roquebrune 
this  winter,  mother?"  she  asked. 

224 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Mardale  replied;  "I  have  been  for  so 
many  winters  now.  I  shall  stay  in  England,  for  a 
change.     We  can  let  the  Villa  Pontignard,  no  doubt." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  hurry,"  said  Pamela.  She  added: 
"I  shall  be  going  to  London  to-morrow,  but  I  shall 
be  back  in  the  evening." 

She  thought  over  her  plan  that  evening.  Its  exe- 
cution would  cost  her  something,  she  realized.  For 
many  years  she  had  not  been  out  of  England  during 
the  winter.  She  must  leave  her  horses  behind,  and 
that  was  no  small  sacrifice  for  Pamela.  She  had  one 
horse  in  particular,  a  big  Irish  horse,  which  had  carried 
her  in  the  days  when  her  troubles  were  at  their  worst. 
He  would  follow  her  about  the  paddock  or  the  yard 
nuzzling  against  her  arm;  a  horse  of  blood  and  courage, 
yet  gentle  with  her,  thoughtful  and  kind  for  her  as 
only  a  horse  among  the  animals  can  be.  She  must 
leave  him.  On  the  other  hand,  her  thoughts  of  late 
had  been  turning  to  Roquebrune  for  a  particular  rea- 
son. She  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  rather  like  to 
tread  again  those  hill-paths,  to  see  once  more  those 
capes  and  headlands  of  which  every  one  was  a  land- 
mark of  past  pain — just  as  an  experiment.  She  trav- 
elled to  London  the  next  day  and  drove  from  St.  Pan- 
eras  into  Regent's  Park. 

Millie  Stretton  had  taken  a  house  on  the  west  side 
of  the  park.  It  looked  east  across  the  water  and 
through  the  glades  of  trees,  and  in  front  of  it  were 
the  open  spaces  of  which  Tony  and  she  had  dreamed; 
and  the  sunlight  streamed  through  the  windows  and 
lay  in  golden  splashes  on  the  floors  when  there  was 
sunHght  in  London  anywhere  at  all.  When  she  looked 
from  her  window  on  the  first  morning,  she  could  not 
but  remember  the  plans  which  Tony  and  she  had  de- 

225 


THE   TRUANTS 

bated  long  ago.  They  had  been  so  certain  of  reaHzing 
them.  Well,  they  were  realized  now,  for  her  at  all 
events.  There  was  the  sunlight  piercing  through 
every  cranny;  there  were  the  wide  expanses  of  green, 
and  trees.  Only  the  windows  looked  on  Regent's  Park, 
and  on  no  wide  prairie;  and  of  the  two  who,  with  so 
much  enthusiasm,  had  marked  out  their  imaginary 
site  and  built  their  house,  there  was  only  one  to  enjoy 
the  fulfilment.  Millie  Stretton  thought  of  Tony  that 
morning,  but  with  an  effort.  What  Pamela  had  fore- 
seen had  come  to  pass.  He  had  grown  elusive  to  her 
thoughts,  she  could  hardly  visuahze  his  person  to  her- 
self; he  was  almost  unreal.  Had  he  walked  in  at  that 
moment  he  would  have  been  irksome  to  her  as  a 
stranger. 

It  was,  however,  Pamela  Mardale  who  walked  in. 
She  was  shown  over  the  house,  and  until  that  ceremony 
was  over  she  did  not  broach  the  reason  for  her  visit. 
Then,  however,  Millie  said  with  delight: 

"It  is  what  I  have  always  wanted — sunlight." 

"I  came  to  suggest  more  sunlight,"  said  Pamela. 
"There  is  our  villa  at  Roquebrune  in  the  south  of 
France.  It  will  be  empty  this  winter.  And  I  thought 
that  perhaps  you  and  I  might  go  out  there  together 
as  soon  as  Christmas  is  past." 

Millie  was  standing  at  the  window  with  her  back  to 
Pamela.     She  turned  round  quickly. 

"But  you  hate  the  place,"  she  said. 

Pamela  answered  with  sincerity. 

"  None  the  less  I  want  to  go  this  winter.  I  want  to 
go  very  much.  I  won't  tell  you  why.  But  I  do  want 
to  go.     And  I  should  like  you  to  come  with  me." 

Pamela  was  anxious  to  discover  whether  that  villa 
and  its  grounds,  and  the  view  from  its  windows,  had 

226 


THE  TRUANTS 

still  the  power  to  revive  the  grief  with  which  they  had 
been  so  completely  associated  in  her  mind.  Hitherto 
she  had  shrunk  from  the  very  idea  of  ever  revisiting 
Roquebrune;  of  late,  however,  since  Warrisden,  in  a 
word,  had  occupied  so  large  a  place  in  her  thoughts, 
she  had  wished  to  put  herself  to  the  test,  to  under- 
stand whether  her  distress  was  really  and  truly  dead, 
or  whether  it  merely  slumbered  and  could  wake  again. 
It  was  necessary  for  Warrisden's  sake,  as  much  as  her 
own,  that  she  should  come  to  a  true  knowledge.  And 
nowhere  else  could  she  so  certainly  acquire  it.  If  the 
sight  of  Roquebrune,  the  familiar  look  of  the  villa's 
rooms,  the  famihar  paths  whereon  she  had  carried  so 
overcharged  a  heart,  had  no  longer  power  to  hurt  and 
pain  her,  then  she  would  be  sure  that  she  could  start 
her  life  afresh.  It  was  only  fair — so  she  phrased  it  in 
her  thoughts — that  she  should  make  the  experiment. 

Millie  turned  back  to  the  window. 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  leave  London  this 
winter,"  she  said.  "You  see,  I  have  only  just  got 
into  the  house." 

"It  might  spare  you  some  annoyance,"  Pamela  sug- 
gested. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Millie. 

"  The  annoyance  of  having  to  explain  Tony's  absence. 
He  will  very  likely  have  returned  by  the  spring." 

Millie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  have  borne  that  annoyance  for  two  years,"  she 
replied.      "  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go  away  this  winter." 

Was  Millie  thinking  of  Gallon's  return?  Pamela 
wondered.  Was  it  on  his  account  that  she  decided  to 
remain?  Pamela  could  not  ask  the  question.  Her 
plan  had  come  to  naught,  and  she  returned  that  after- 
noon to  Leicestershire. 

227 


THE  TRUANTS 

Christmas  passed,  and  half-way  through  the  month 
of  January  Gallon  called,  on  a  dark  afternoon,  at  Millie 
Stretton's  house.  Millie  was  alone;  she  was,  indeed, 
expecting  him.  When  Gallon  entered  the  room  ho 
found  her  standing  with  her  back  to  the  window,  her 
face  to  the  door,  and  so  she  stood,  without  speaking, 
for  a  few  moments. 

"You  have  been  a  long  time  away,"  she  said,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  curiosity,  but  with  yet  more 
anxiety  to  mark  any  changes  which  had  come  in  his 
face. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "a  long  time." 

Milhe  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  tea  to  be  brought. 

"You  have  not  changed,"  said  she. 

"Nor  you." 

Millie  had  spoken  with  a  noticeable  distance  in  her 
manner;  and  she  had  not  given  him  her  hand.  With 
her  back  towards  the  light  she  had  allowed  very  little 
of  her  expression  to  be  visible  to  her  visitor.  When 
tea  was  brought  in,  however,  she  sat  between  the  fire- 
place and  the  window,  and  the  hght  fell  upon  her. 
Gallon  sat  opposite  to  her. 

"At  last  I  know  that  I  am  at  home  again,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.  Then  he  leaned  forward  and  lowered  his 
voice,  although  there  was  no  third  person  in  the  room. 
He  knew  the  value  of  such  tricks.  "  I  have  looked  for- 
ward during  these  eighteen  months  so  very  much  to 
seeing  you  again." 

Milhe's  face  colored,  but  it  was  with  anger  rather 
than  pleasure.  There  was  a  hard  look  upon  her  face; 
her  eyes  blamed  him. 

"Yet  you  went  away  without  a  word  to  me,"  she 
said.  "You  did  not  come  to  see  me  before  you  went, 
you  never  hinted  you  were  going." 

228 


THE   TRUANTS 

"You  thought  it  unkind?" 

"It  was  unkind,"  said  Millie. 

"  But  I  wrote  to  you.     I  have  written  often." 

"  In  no  letter  have  you  told  me  why  you  went  away," 
said  MiUie. 

"You  missed  me  when  I  went,  then?" 

MilHe  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Well,  I  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  you.  I  missed — I 
missed— something,"  she  said.  Gallon  drank  his  tea 
and  set  down  his  cup. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  why  I  went  away  without 
a  word.  I  never  mentioned  the  reason  in  my  letters; 
I  meant  to  tell  you  it  with  my  lips.  I  did  not  go  away ; 
I  was  sent  away." 

Millie  was  perplexed.  "Sent  away?"  she  repeated. 
"I  understood,  from  what  you  wrote,  that  you  ac- 
cepted a  post  from  Mr.  Mudge?" 

"I  had  to  accept  it,"  said  Gallon.  "It  was  forced 
on  me      Mudge  was  only  the  instrument  to  get  me 

cut  of  the  way." 

"Who  sent  you  away,  then?"  asked  Millie.  ^^ 
"A  friend  of  yours — Miss  Pamela  Mardale." 
Millie  Stretton  leaned  back  in  her  chair.     "  Pamela!" 

she  cried,  incredulously.     "Pamela  sent  you  away! 

Why?"  , 

"Because  she  thought  that  I  was  seemg  too  much 

of  you." 

Gallon  watched  for  the  effect  which  his  words  would 
produce.  He  saw  the  change  come  in  Milhe's  face. 
There  was  a  new  Hght  in  her  eyes,  her  face  flushed, 
she  was  angry;  and  anger  was  just  the  feeling  he  had 
meant  to  arouse,  anger  against  Pamela,  anger  which 
would  drive  Millie  towards  him.  He  had  kept  his  ex- 
planation back  deliberately  until  he  could  speak  it 

229 


/ 


THE   TRUANTS 

himself.  From  the  moment  when  he  had  started  from 
England  he  had  nursed  his  determination  to  tell  it  to 
Millie  Stretton.  He  had  been  hoodwinked,  outwitted 
by  Pamela  and  her  friend;  he  had  been  banished  to 
Chile  for  two  years.  Very  well.  But  the  game  was 
not  over  yet.  His  vanity  was  hurt  as  nothing  had 
ever  hurt  it  before.  He  was  stung  to  a  thirst  for  re- 
venge. He  would  live  frugally,  clear  off  his  debts, 
return  to  England,  and  prove  to  his  enemies  the  futility 
of  their  plan.  He  thought  of  Pamela  Mardale;  he 
imagined  her  hearing  of  his  departure  and  dismissing 
him  straightway  contemptuously  from  her  thoughts. 
For  eighteen  months  he  nursed  his  anger,  and  waited 
for  the  moment  when  he  could  return.  There  should 
be  a  surprise  for  Pamela  Mardale.  She  should  under- 
stand that  he  was  a  dangerous  fellow  to  attack.  Al- 
ready within  a  day  of  his  landing  he  had  begun  to 
retaliate.  The  anger  in  Millie  Stretton 's  face  was  of 
good  augury  for  him. 

"  Pamela!"  cried  Millie,  clinching  her  hands  together 
suddenly.     "Yes,  it  was  Pamela." 

She  bethought  her  of  that  pressing  invitation  to  the 
south  of  France,  an  invitation  from  Pamela,  who  looked 
on  the  shires  as  the  only  wintering-place.  That  was 
explained  now.  Mr.  Mudge  had  informed  Pamela,  no 
doubt,  that  Lionel  Gallon  was  returning.  Millie  was 
furious.  She  looked  on  this  interference  as  a  gross  im- 
pertinence. 

Gallon  rose  from  his  chair. 

"You  can  imagine  it  was  humiliating  to  me  to  be 
tricked  and  sent  away.  But  I  was  helpless.  I  am  a 
poor  man ;  I  was  in  debt.  Miss  Mardale  had  an  old,  rich 
man  devoted  to  her  in  Mr.  Mudge.  He  bought  up  my 
debts,  his  lawyer  demanded  an  immediate  settlement 

230 


THE  TRUANTS 

of  them  all,  and  I  could  not  immediately  settle  them. 
I  was  threatened  with  proceedings,  with  bankruptcy." 

"You  should  have  come  to  me,"  cried  Millie. 

Gallon  raised  a  protesting  hand. 

"Oh,  Lady  Stretton,  how  could  I  ?"  he  exclaimed  in 
reproach.  "Think  for  a  moment!  Oh,  you  would 
have  offered  help  at  a  hint.  I  know  you.  You  are 
most  kind,  most  generous.  But  think,  you  are  a 
w^oman.     I  am  a  man.     Oh  no!" 

Gallon  did  not  mention  that  Mr.  Mudge  had  com- 
pelled him  to  accept  or  refuse  the  post  in  Ghile  with 
only  an  hour's  deliberation,  and  that  hour  between 
seven  and  eight  in  the  evening.  He  had  thought  of 
calling  upon  Millie  to  suggest  in  her  mind  the  offer 
which  she  had  now  made,  but  he  had  not  had  the  time. 
He  was  glad  now.  His  position  was  thereby  so  much 
the  stronger. 

"I  had  to  accept  Mudge's  offer.  Even  the  accept- 
ance was  made  as  humiliating  as  it  possibly  could  be. 
For  Mudge  deliberately  let  me  see  that  his  only  motive 
was  to  get  me  out  of  the  country.  He  did  not  care 
whether  I  knew  his  motive  or  not.  I  did  not  count," 
he  cried,  bitterly.  "I  was  a  mere  pawn  upon  a  chess- 
board. I  had  to  withdraw  from  my  candidature.  My 
career  was  spoiled.  What  did  they  care — Mr.  Mudge 
and  your  friend?     I  was  got  out  of  your  way." 

"Oh,  oh!"  cried  Millie,  and  Gallon  stepped  quickly 
to  her  side. 

"Imagine  what  these  months  have  been  to  me,"  he 
went  on.  "I  was  out  there  in  Ghile,  without  friends. 
I  had  nothing  to  do.  Every  one  else  upon  the  railway 
had  his  work,  his  definite  work,  his  definite  position. 
I  was  nothing  at  all,  a  mere  prisoner,  in  everybody's 
way,  a  man  utterly  befooled.     But  that  was  not  the 

231 


THE   TRUANTS 

worst  of  it.  Shall  I  be  frank?"  He  made  a  pretence 
of  hesitation.  "I  will.  I  will  take  the  risk  of  frank- 
ness. I  was  sent  away  just  when  I  had  begun  to 
think  a  great  deal  about  you."  Millie  Stretton,  who 
had  been  gazing  into  her  companion's  face  with  the 
utmost  sympathy,  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  floor.  But 
she  was  silent. 

"That  was  the  worst,"  he  continued,  softly.  "I  was 
angry,  of  course.  I  knew  that  I  was  losing  the  better 
part  of  two  years — " 

And  Millie  interrupted  him:  "How  did  she  know?" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Who?  Oh,  Miss  Mardale.  Do  you  remember  the 
evening  she  came  to  Whitewebs?  I  was  waiting  for 
you  in  the  hall.  You  came  down  the  stairs  and  ran  up 
again.  There  was  a  mirror  on  the  mantel-piece.  She 
guessed  then.  Afterwards  she  and  Mudge  discussed 
us  in  the  drawing-room.     I  saw  them." 

Millie  got  up  from  her  chair  and  moved  to  the  fire- 
place. 

"  It  was  on  my  account  that  you  have  lost  two  years, 
that  your  career  has  been  hindered,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  She  was  really  hurt,  really  troubled.  "I 
am  so  very  sorry.  What  return  can  I  ever  make  to 
you?  I  will  never  speak  to  Pamela  again." 
Gallon  crossed  and  stood  beside  her. 
"No,  don't  do  that,"  he  said;  "it  would  be  — un- 
wise." 

Her  eyes  flashed  up  to  his  quickly,  and  as  quickly 
fell.     The  color  slowly  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  my  career?"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  smile.     "  I  see  you  again.     If  you  wish 
to  make  me  a  return,  let  me  see  you  very  often!" 
He  spoke  with  tenderness,  and  he  was  not  pretend- 

232 


THE   TRUANTS 

ing.  What  space  did  Millie  Stretton  fill  in  his  thoughts  ? 
She  was  pretty,  she  was  sympathetic,  she  was  ready  to 
catch  the  mood  of  her  companion.  It  was  not  merely 
an  act  of  retaliation  which  Gallon  projected.  Such 
love  as  he  had  to  give  was  hers.  It  was  not  durable,  it 
was  intertwined  with  meanness,  it  knew  no  high  aims; 
yet,  such  as  it  was,  it  was  hers.  It  gained,  too,  a  fictitious 
strength  from  the  mere  fact  that  he  had  been  deliber- 
ately kept  from  her.  The  eighteen  months  of  bondage 
had  given  her  an  importance  in  his  eyes,  had  made  her 
more  desirable  through  the  very  difficulty  of  attaining 
her.  Millie  allowed  him  to  come  again  and  again. 
She  had  a  natural  taste  for  secrecies,  and  practised 
them  now,  as  he  bade  her  do,  without  any  perception 
of  the  humiliation  which  they  involved.  If  he  called 
at  her  house,  it  was  after  the  dusk  had  fallen,  and  when 
she  was  at  home  to  no  other  visitors.  They  dined  to- 
gether in  the  restaurants  of  unfashionable  hotels,  and 
if  she  drove  to  them  in  her  brougham,  she  sent  it  away, 
and  was  escorted  to  her  door  in  a  cab.  Gallon  was  a 
past-master  in  concealment;  he  knew  the  public  places 
where  the  public  never  is,  and  rumor  did  not  couple  their 
names.  But  secrecy  is  not  for  the  secret  when  the 
secret  ones  are  a  man  and  a  woman.  It  needs  too 
much  calculation  in  making  appointments,  too  much 
punctuality  in  keeping  them,  too  close  a  dependence 
upon  the  probable  thing  happening  at  the  probable 
time.  Sooner  or  later  an  accident,  which  could  not  be 
foreseen,  occurs.  It  may  be  no  more  than  the  colli- 
sion of  a  cab  and  the  summons  of  the  driver.  Or  some 
one  takes,  one  morning,  a  walk  in  an  unaccustomed 
spot.  Or  the  intriguers  fall  in  quite  unexpectedly 
with  another,  who  has  a  secret  too,  of  which  they  were 
not  aware.     Sooner  or  later  some  one  knows. 

233 


THE   TRUANTS 

It  was  the  last  of  these  contingencies  which  brought 
about  the  disclosure  in  the  case  of  Gallon  and  Millie 
Stretton.  Six  weeks  had  passed  since  Gallon's  return. 
It  was  just  a  month  from  Easter.  MilHe  dined  with 
some  friends,  and  went  with  them  afterwards  to  a 
theatre  in  the  Haymarket.  At  the  door  she  sent  her 
carriage  home,  and  when  the  performance  was  over 
she  took  a  hansom-cab.  She  declined  any  escort,  and 
was  driveji  up  Regent  Street  towards  her  home.  At 
the  corner  of  Devonshire  Street,  in  Portland  Place,  a 
man  loitered  upon  the  pavement  with  a  white  scarf 
showing  above  his  coat-collar.  Millie  opened  the  trap 
and  spoke  to  the  driver.  The  cab  stopped  by  the 
loiterer  at  the  street  corner,  who  opened  the  doors 
and  stepped  in.     The  loiterer  was  Lionel  Gallon. 

"Drive  round  Regent's  Park,"  he  said. 

The  cab  drove  northward  through  Park  Place  and 
along  the  broad  road  towards  Alexandra  Gate.  The 
air  was  warm,  the  stars  bright  overhead,  the  dark  trees 
lined  the  roadway  on  the  left,  the  road  under  the  wheels 
was  very  white.  There  was  a  great  peace  in  the  park. 
It  was  quite  deserted.  In  a  second  it  seemed  they  had 
come  out  of  the  glare  and  the  roar  of  streets  into  a  land 
of  quiet  and  cool  gloom.  Millie  leaned  back  while 
Gallon  talked,  and  this  was  the  burden  of  his  talk. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  south  of  France.  I  will  go  first. 
Do  you  follow!  You  go  for  Easter.  It  will  be  quite 
natural.  You  stay  at  Eze,  I  at  the  little  Reserve  by 
the  sea  a  mile  away.  There  is  a  suite  of  rooms  there. 
No  one  need  know."  Three  times  the  cab  drove  round 
the  park  while  Gallon  urged,  and  Millie  more  and  more 
faintly  declined.  The  driver  sat  perched  upon  his  box, 
certain  of  a  good  fare,  indifferent.  Inside  his  cab,  on 
this  quiet  night,  the  great  issues  of  life  and  honor  were 

234 


THE   TRUANTS 

debated.  Millie  had  just  her  Hfe  in  her  hands. 
One  way  or  the  other,  by  a  "Yes"  or  a  "No,"  she  must 
decide  what  she  would  do  with  it,  and,  to  whatever 
decision  she  came,  it  must  reach  out  momentous  with 
consequences  and  touch  other  lives  beyond  hers,  and, 
beyond  those  others,  others  still.  Her  husband,  her 
relations,  her  friends — not  one  of  them  but  was  con- 
cerned in  this  midnight  drive.  It  seemed  to  Millie  al- 
most that  she  heard  them  hurrying  about  the  cab, 
calling  to  her,  reaching  out  their  hands.  So  vivid  was 
her  thought  that  she  could  count  them,  and  could 
recognize  their  faces.  She  looked  among  them  for  her 
husband.  But  Tony  was  not  there.  She  could  not 
see  him,  she  could  not  hear  his  voice.  Round  and 
round  past  the  trees,  on  the  white  road,  the  cab  went 
jingling  on,  the  driver,  indifferent,  upon  his  perch,  the 
tempter  and  the  tempted  within. 

"Your  husband  does  not  care,"  said  Gallon.  "If 
he  did,  would  he  stay  so  long  away?" 

"No,  he  does  not  care,"  said  Millie.  If  he  cared, 
would  he  not  be  among  that  suppliant  throng  which 
ran  about  the  cab  ?  And  all  at  once  it  seemed  that 
the  hurrying  footsteps  lagged  behind.  The  voices 
called  more  faintly ;  she  could  not  see  the  outstretching 
hands. 

"No  one  need  know,"  said  Gallon. 

"Some  one  always  knows,"  replied  Millie. 

"What  then?"  cried  Gallon.  "If  you  love  you 
will  not  mind.  If  you  love  you  will  abandon  every- 
thing— every  one.     If  you  love!" 

He  had  taken  the  right  way  to  persuade  her.  Gall 
upon  Millie  for  a  great  sacrifice,  she  would  make  it,  she 
would  glory  in  making  it,  just  for  the  moment.  Dis- 
enchantment would  come  later;  but  nothing  of  it  would 

235 


THE   TRUANTS 

she  foresee.  As  she  had  matched  herself  with  Tony, 
when  first  he  had  proposed  to  leave  her  behind  in  his 
father's  house,  so  now  she  matched  herself  with  Gallon; 
she  felt  strong. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "I  will  follow." 
Gallon  stopped  the  cab  and  got  out.  As  he  closed 
the  doors  and  told  the  cabman  where  to  drive,  a  man, 
wretchedly  clad,  slouched  past  and  turned  into  the 
Marylebone  Road.  That  was  all.  Sooner  or  later  some 
one  was  sure  to  discover  their  secret.  It  happened 
that  the  some  one  passed  them  by  to-night. 


XXII 
MR.   MUDGE'S    CONFESSION 

ON  the  following  morning  a  telegram  was  brought 
to  Pamela  at  her  father's  house  in  Leicestershire. 
It  came  from  Mr.  Mudge,  and  contained  these  words: 

"  Important  that  I  should  see  you.  Coming  down.  Please 
be  at  home  at  two." 

Punctually  Mr.  Mudge  arrived.  Pamela  received  him 
in  her  own  sitting-room.  She  was  waiting  with  a  restless 
anxiety,  and  hardly  waited  for  the  door  to  be  closed. 

"You  have  bad  news  for  me,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I 
know!  You  are  a  busy  man.  You  would  not  have 
come  down  to  me  had  you  not  bad  news.  I  am  very 
grateful  for  your  coming,  but  you  have  bad  news." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Mudge,  gravely;  "news  so  bad  that 
you  must  ask  your  other  friend  to  help  you.  I  can 
do  nothing  here." 

It  cost  Mr.  Mudge  a  little  to  acknowledge  that  he 
was  of  no  avail  in  this  particular  instance.  He  would 
rather  have  served  Pamela  himself,  had  it  been  possi- 
ble. He  was  fully  aware  of  his  age  and  his  looks  and 
his  limitations.  He  was  quite  willing  to  stand  aside 
for  the  other  friend;  indeed,  he  wished,  with  all  his 
heart,  that  she  should  be  happy  with  some  mate  of  her 
own  people.  But  at  the  same  time  he  wished  her  to 
owe  as  much  as  possible  of  her  happiness  to  him.  He 
was  her  friend,  but  there  was  just  that  element  of 

237 


THE   TRUANTS 

jealousy  in  his  friendship  which  springs  up  when  the 
friends  are  man  and  woman.  Pamela  understood  that 
it  meant  some  abnegation  on  his  part  to  bid  her  call 
upon  another  than  himself.  She  was  still  more  im- 
pressed, in  consequence,  with  the  gravity  of  the  news 
he  had  to  convey. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Gallon?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "It  is  imperative  that  Sir  An- 
thony Stretton  should  return,  and  return  at  once.  Of 
that  I  am  very  sure." 

"You  have  seen  Mr.  Gallon?"  asked  Pamela. 

"And    Lady    Stretton.     They   were   together." 

"When?" 

"Last  night.     In  Regent's  Park." 

Pamela  hesitated.  She  was  doubtful  how  to  put 
her  questions.     She  said, 

"And  you  are  sure  the  trouble  is  urgent?" 

Mr.  Mudge  nodded  his  head. 

"Very  sure.  I  saw  them  together.  I  saw  the  look 
on  Lady  Stretton's  face.  It  was  a  clear  night.  There 
was  a  lamp,  too,  in  the  cab.  I  passed  them  as  Gallon 
got  out  and  said  'Good-night.'  " 

Pamela  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  fixed  her  troubled 
eyes  on  her  companion. 

"Did  they  see  you?" 

Mr.  Mudge  smiled. 
'  "No." 

"Let  me  have  the  whole  truth,"  cried  Pamela. 
"Tell  me  the  story  from  the  beginning.  How  you 
came  to  see  them — everything." 

Mr.  Mudge  sat  down  in  his  turn.  He  presented  to 
her  a  side  of  his  character  which  she  had  not  hitherto 
suspected.  She  hstened,  and  was  moved  to  sympathy 
as  no  complaint  could  ever  have  moved  her;  and  Mr. 

238 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mudge  was  the  last  man  to  complain.  Yet  the  truth 
came  out  clearly.  Outwardly  prosperous  and  en- 
viable, he  had  yet  inwardly  missed  all.  A  man  of  so 
wide  a  business,  so  many  undertakings,  so  occupied  a 
life,  it  was  natural  to  dissociate  him  from  the  ordinary 
human  sympathies  and  desires.  It  seemed  that  he 
could  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  indulge 
them.  But  here  he  was,  as  he  had  once  done  before, 
not  merely  admitting  their  existence  within  him,  but 
confessing  that  they  were  far  the  greater  part  of  him, 
and  that  because  they  had  been  thwarted  the  pros- 
perous external  hfe  of  business  to  which  he  seemed  so 
ardently  enchained  was  really  of  little  account.  He 
spoke  very  simply.  Pamela  lost  sight  of  the  business 
machine  altogether.  Here  was  a  man,  like  another,  tell- 
ing her  that  through  his  vain  ambitions  his  life  had  gone 
astray.  She  found  a  pathos  in  the  dull  and  unimpres- 
sive look  of  him — his  bald,  uncomely  head,  his  ungrace- 
ful figure.  There  was  a  strange  contrast  between  his  ap- 
pearance and  the  fanciful  antidote  for  disappointment 
which  had  brought  him  into  Regent's  Park  when  Gallon 
and  Lady  Stretton  were  discussing  their  future  course. 

"I  told  you  something  of  my  history  at  Newmar- 
ket," he  said.  "You  must  remember  what  I  told  you 
or  you  will  not  understand." 

"I  remember  very  well,"  said  Pamela,  gently.  "I 
think  that  I  shall  understand." 

Pamela  of  late,  indeed,  had  gained  much  under- 
standing. Two  years  ago  the  other  point  of  view 
was  to  her  always  without  interest.  As  often  as  not 
she  was  unaware  that  it  existed;  when  she  was  aware, 
she  dismissed  it  without  consideration.  But  of  late 
her  eyes  had  learned  to  soften  at  the  troubles  of  others, 
her  mind  to  be  perplexed  with  their  perplexities. 

239 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,"  said  Mudge,  nodding  his  head,  with  a  smile, 
towards  her.     "You  will  understand  now." 

And  he  laid  so  much  emphasis  upon  the  word  that 
Pamela  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Why  now?"  she  asked. 

"Because,  recently,  imagination  has  come  to  you. 
I  have  seen,  I  have  noticed.  Imagination,  the  power 
to  see  clearly,  the  power  to  understand — perhaps  the 
greatest  gift  which  love  has  in  all  his  big  box  of  gifts." 

Pamela  colored  at  his  words.  She  neither  admitted 
nor  denied  the  suggestion  they  contained. 

"I  have,  therefore,  no  fear  that  you  will  misunder- 
stand," Mr.  Mudge  insisted.  "I  told  you  that  my 
career,  such  as  it  is,  has  left  me  a  very  lonely  man 
among  a  crowd  of  acquaintances  who  are  no  more  in 
sympathy  with  me  than  I  myself  am  in  sympathy  with 
them.  I  did  not  tell  you  that  I  had  found  a  way  of 
alleviation." 

"No,"  said  Pamela.  She  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand how  this  statement  of  her  companion  was  con- 
nected with  his  detection  of  Gallon  and  Lady  Stretton; 
but  she  had  no  doubt  there  was  a  connection.  Mudge 
was  not  of  those  who  take  a  pride  in  disclosing  the 
details  of  their  life  and  character  in  and  out  of  season. 
If  he  spoke  of  himself,  he  did  so  with  a  definite  reason, 
which  bore  upon  the  business  in  hand.  "No;  on  the 
contrary,  you  said  that  you  could  not  go  back  and 
start  afresh.  You  had  too  much  upon  your  hands. 
You  were  fixed  in  your  isolation." 

"I  did  not  even  then  tell  you  all  the  truth.  I 
could  not  go  back  half-way,  that  is  true.  I  do  not 
think  I  would  find  any  comfort  in  that  course  even  if 
I  could;  but  I  can  and  I  do  go  back  all  the  way  at 
times.     I  reconstruct  the  days  when  I  was  very,  very 

240 


THE   TRUANTS 

poor,  and  yet  full  of  hope,  full  of  confidence.  I  do  not 
mean  that  I  sit  in  front  of  my  fare  and  tell  myself  the 
story.  I  do  much  more.  I  actually  live  them  over 
again,  so  far  as  I  can.  That  puzzles  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh. 

Pamela,  indeed,  was  looking  at  him  with  a  frown  of 
perplexity  upon  her  forehead. 

"  How  do  you  live  them  again  ?"  she  asked.     "  I  don't 
understand." 

"In  this  way,"  said  Mudge.  "I  keep  an  old,  worn- 
out  suit  of  clothes  locked  up  in  a  cupboard.  Well, 
when  I  find  the  house  too  lonely,  and  my  servants, 
with  their  noiseless  tread,  get  on  to  my  nerves,  I  just 
put  on  that  suit  of  clothes  and  revisit  the  old  haunts 
where  I  used  to  live  forty  and  fifty  years  ago.  Often 
I  have  come  back  from  a  dinner-party,  let  myself  in  at 
my  front  door,  and  slipped  out  of  a  side  entrance  half 
an  hour  later  on  one  of  my  pilgrimages.  You  would 
never  know  me;  you  might  toss  me  a  shilling,  that's 
all.  Of  course,  I  have  to  be  careful.  I  am  always 
expecting  to  be  taken  up  as  a  thief  as  I  slink  away 
from  the  house.  I  would  look  rather  a  fool  if  that 
happened,  wouldn't  I?"  and  he  laughed.  "But  it 
never  has  yet."  He  suddenly  turned  to  her.  "I  en- 
joy myself  upon  those  jaunts,  you  know;  I  really  enjoy 
myself.  I  like  the  secrecy.  To  slip  out  of  the  great, 
silent  house,  to  get  clear  away  from  the  pictures  and 
the  furniture  and  the  obedience,  and  to  tramp  down 
into  the  glare  and  the  noise  of  the  big  streets,  and  to 
turn  into  some  pothouse  where  once,  years  ago,  I  used 
to  take  my  supper  and  dream  of  the  future.  It's  a 
sort  of  hide-and-seek  in  itself."  He  laughed  again, 
and  then  suddenly  became  serious.  "But  it's  much 
more  than  that — ever  so  much  more." 
i6  241 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Where  do  you  go?"  asked  Pamela. 

"It  depends  upon  the  time  I  have.  If  it's  early  I 
go  down  to  Deptford,  very  often.  I  get  into  a  tram 
and  ride  down  a  street  where  I  once  wandered  all 
night  because  I  hadn't  the  price  of  a  lodging.  I  look 
at  the  old  cookshop  where  I  used  to  flatten  my  nose 
against  the  glass  and  dream  that  I  had  the  run  of  my 
teeth.  I  get  down  and  go  into  a  public-house,  say,  with 
a  sanded  floor,  and  have  a  sausage  and  mash  and  a  pot 
of  beer,  just  as  I  was  doing  forty  years  ago  when  this 
or  that  scheme,  which  turned  out  well,  first  came  into 
my  head.  But  don't  misunderstand,"  Mudge  ex- 
claimed. "I  don't  set  ofif  upon  these  visits  for  the 
satisfaction  of  comparing  what  I  was  then  with  what 
I  have  become.  It  is  to  get  back  to  what  I  was  then, 
as  nearly  as  I  can;  to  recapture,  just  for  a  moment, 
some  of  the  high  hopes,  some  of  the  anticipations  of 
happiness  to  be  won  which  I  felt  in  those  days ;  to  for- 
get that  the  happiness  has  never  been  won,  that  the 
high  hopes  were  for  things  not  worth  the  trouble  spent 
in  acquiring  them.  I  was  wet,  very  often  hungry,  al- 
ways ill-clothed;  but  I  was  happy  in  those  days.  Miss 
Mardale,  though  very  likely  I  didn't  know  it.  I  was 
young,  the  future  was  mine,  a  solid  reality ;  and  the 
present — why,  that  was  a  time  of  work  and  dreams. 
There's  nothing  much  better  than  that  combination. 
Miss  Mardale — work  and  dreams!" 

He  repeated  the  words  wistfully,  and  was  silent  for 
a  moment.  No  doubt  those  early  struggles  had  not 
been  so  pleasant  as  they  appeared  in  the  retrospect; 
but  time  had  stripped  them  of  their  bitterness  and  left 
to  Mr.  Mudge  just  that  part  of  them  which  was  worth 
remembering. 

"I  had  friends  in  those  days,"  he  went  on.     "I 

242 


THE   TRUANTS 

wonder  what  has  become  of  them  all?  In  all  my 
jaunts  I  have  never  seen  one." 

"And  where  else  do  you  go?"  asked  Pamela. 

"Oh,  many  places.  There's  a  little  narrow  market 
between  Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  Oxford  Street,  where 
the  gas-jets  flare  over  the  barrows  on  a  Saturday  night, 
and  all  the  poor  people  go  marketing.  That's  a  haunt 
of  mine.  I  was  some  time,  too,  when  I  was  young,  at 
work  near  the  Marylebone  Road.  There's  a  tavern 
near  Madame  Tussaud's  where  I  used  to  go  and  have 
supper  at  the  counter  in  the  public  bar.  Do  you  re- 
member the  night  of  Lady  Millingham's  reception, 
when  we  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  Sir  An- 
thony Stretton?  Well,  I  supped  at  that  tavern  in 
the  Marylebone  Road  on  that  particular  night.  I 
was  hard  put  to  it,  too,  when  I  used  to  work  in  Maryle- 
bone. I  slept  for  three  nights  in  Regent's  Park. 
There's  a  coffee-stall  close  to  the  bridge,  just  outside 
the  park,  on  the  north  side." 

Pamela  started  and  Mudge  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes;  that  is  how  I  came  to  see  Lady  Stretton  and 
Mr.  Gallon.  A  hansom-cab  drove  past  me  just  as  I 
crossed  the  road  to  go  out  of  the  gate  to  the  coffee-stall. 
I  noticed  it  enough  to  see  that  it  held  a  man  and  a 
woman  in  evening  dress,  but  no  more.  I  stayed  at 
the  coffee-stall  for  a  little  while  talking  with  the  cab- 
men and  the  others  who  were  about  it,  and  drinking 
my  coffee.  As  I  returned  into  the  park  the  cab  drove 
past  me  again.  I  thought  it  was  the  same  cab,  from 
the  casual  glance  I  gave,  and  with  the  same  people  in- 
side it.  They  had  driven  round,  were  still  driving 
round.  It  was  a  fine  night,  a  night  of  spring,  fresh 
and  cool  and  very  pleasant.  I  did  not  wonder;  I 
rather  sympathized  with  them,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

243 


THE  TRUANTS 

"You  see,  I  have  never  driven  round  Regent's  Park 
at  night  with  a  woman  I  cared  for  beside  me";  and 
again  the  wistful  note  was  very  audible  in  his  voice ; 
and  he  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "That  was  not  for 
me. 

He  shook  the  wistfulness  from  him  and  resumed. 

"Well,  as  I  reached  the  south  side  of  the  park,  and 
was  close  by  Park  Place,  the  cab  came  towards  me 
again  and  pulled  up.  Gallon  got  out.  I  saw  him 
clearly.  I  saw  quite  clearly,  too,  who  was  within  the 
cab.  So  you  see  there  is  danger.  Mere  friends  do 
not  drive  round  and  round  Regent's  Park  at  night." 

Mr.  Mudge  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  must  get  back  to  town.  I  have  a  fly  waiting  to 
take  me  to  the  station,"  he  said. 

Pamela  walked  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  house. 
As  they  stood  in  the  hall  she  said: 

"  I  thanked  you,  before  you  spoke  at  all,  for  putting 
your  business  aside  for  my  sake  and  coming  down  to 
me.  I  thank  you  still  more  now,  and  for  another  rea- 
son. I  thank  you  for  telling  me  what  you  have  told  me 
about  yourself.  Such  confessions" — and  she  smiled 
upon  the  word — "cannot  be  made  without  great  con- 
fidence in  the  one  they  are  made  to." 

"I  have  that  confidence,"  said  Mudge. 

"I  know.  I  am  glad,"  replied  Pamela;  and  she  re- 
sumed: "They  cannot  be  made,  either,  without  creat- 
ing a  difference.  We  no  longer  stand  where  we  did 
before  they  were  made.  I  always  looked  upon  you 
as  my  friend;  but  we  are  far  greater  friends  now:  is  not 
that  so?" 

She  spoke  with  great  simplicity  and  feeling,  her  eyes 
ghstened  a  little,  and  she  added,  "You  are  not  living 
now  with  merely  acquaintances  around  you." 

244 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mt.  Mudge  took  her  hand. 

"I  am  very  glad  that  I  came,"  he  said,  and,  mount- 
ing into  the  fly,  he  drove  away. 

Pamela  went  back  to  the  house  and  wrote  out  a 
telegram  to  Warrisden.  She  asked  him  to  come  at 
once  to — and  then  she  paused.  Should  he  come  here  ? 
No;  there  was  another  place,  with  associations  for  her 
which  had  now  grown  very  pleasant  and  sweet  to  her 
thoughts.  She  asked  him  to  meet  her  at  the  place 
where  they  had  once  kept  tryst  before — the  parlor  of 
the  inn  upon  the  hill  in  the  village  of  the  three  pop- 
lars. 


XXIII 
ROQUEBRUNE   REVISITED 

THERE,  accordingly,  they  met  on  the  following 
afternoon.  Pamela  rode  across  the  level  country 
between  the  Croft  Hill,  which  overhung  her  house,  and 
the  village.  In  front  of  her  the  three  poplars  pointed 
skyward  from  the  ridge.  She  was  anxious  and  troubled. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  Millie  Stretton  was  slipping  be- 
yond her  reach ;  but  the  sight  of  those  trees  lightened 
her  of  some  portion  of  her  distress.  She  was  turning 
more  and  more  in  her  thoughts  towards  Warrisden 
whenever  trouble  knocked  upon  her  door.  In  the 
moment  of  greatest  perplexity  his  companionship, 
or  even  the  thought  of  it,  rested  her  like  sleep.  As  she 
came  round  the  bend  of  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
she  saw  him  coming  down  the  slope  towards  her.  She 
quickened  her  horse  and  trotted  up  to  him. 

"You  are  here  already  ?"  she  said.  "I  am  very  glad. 
I  was  not  sure  that  I  had  allowed  you  time  enough." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Warrisden.  "I  came  at  once.  I 
guessed  why  you  wanted  me  from  the  choice  of  our 
meeting-place.  We  meet  at  Quetta  on  the  same  busi- 
ness which  brought  us  together  at  Quetta  before.  Is 
not  that  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pamela. 

They  walked  to  the  door  of  the  inn  at  the  top  of  the 
hill.  A  hostler  took  charge  of  Pamela's  horse,  and  they 
went  within  to  the  parlor. 

246 


THE   TRUANTS 

"  You  want  me  to  find  Stretton  again  ?"  said  Warris- 
den. 

Pamela  looked  at  him  remorsefully. 

"Well,  I  do,"  she  answered;  and  there  was  com- 
punction in  the  tone  of  her  voice.  "I  would  not  ask 
you  unless  the  matter  was  very  urgent.  I  have  used 
you  for  my  needs,  I  know,  with  too  little  considera- 
tion for  you,  and  you  very  generously  and  willingly 
have  allowed  me  to  use  you.  So  I  am  a  little  ashamed 
to  come  to  you  again." 

Here  were  strange  words  from  Pamela.  They  were 
spoken  with  hesitation,  too,  and  the  color  burned  in 
her  cheeks.  Warrisden  was  surprised  to  hear  them. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  and  gave  it  a  little  affec- 
tionate shake. 

"My  dear,  I  am  serving  myself,"  he  said,  "just  as 
much  as  I  am  serving  you.  Don't  you  understand 
that  ?  Have  you  forgotten  our  walk  under  the  elms  in 
Lady  Millingham's  garden?  If  Tony  returned,  and 
returned  in  time,  why,  then  you  might  lay  your  fin- 
ger on  the  turnpike  gate  and  let  it  swing  open  of  its 
own  accord.  I  remember  what  you  said.  Tony's  re- 
turn helps  me,  so  I  help  myself  in  securing  his  re- 
turn." 

Pamela's  face  softened  into  a  smile. 

"Then  you  really  do  not  mind  going?"  she  went  on. 
"I  am  remorseful,  in  a  way,  because  I  asked  you  to 
go  once  before  in  this  very  room,  and  nothing  came 
of  all  your  trouble.  I  want  you  to  believe  now  that  I 
could  not  ask  you  again  to  undergo  the  same  trouble, 
or  even  more,  as  it  may  prove,  were  not  the  need  ever 
so  much  more  urgent  than  it  was  then." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  the  need  is  more  urgent," 
Warrisden    replied;    "but,    on    the    other    hand,    the 

247 


THE   TRUANTS 

trouble  I  shall  have  to  bear  is  much  less,  for  I  know 
where  Stretton  is." 

Pamela  felt  that  half  of  the  load  of  anxiety  was  taken 
from  her  shoulders. 

"You  do?"  she  exclaimed. 

Warrisden  nodded. 

"And  what  he  is  doing.  He  is  serving  with  the 
Foreign  Legion  in  Algeria.  I  thought  you  might  want 
to  lay  your  hands  on  him  again,  and  I  wished  to  be 
ready.  Chance  gave  me  a  clew — an  envelope  with  a 
post-mark.  I  followed  up  the  clew  by  securing  an 
example  of  Stretton's  handwriting.  It  was  the  same 
handwriting  as  that  which  directed  the  envelope,  so  I 
was  sure." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pamela.  "Indeed,  you  do  not 
fail  me,"  and  her  voice  was  musical  with  gratitude. 

"  He  was  at  Ain-Sefra,  a  little  town  on  the  frontier  of 
Algeria,"  Warrisden  resumed. 

And  Pamela  interrupted  him. 

"Then  I  need  not  make  so  heavy  a  demand  upon 
you,  after  all,"  she  said.  "It  was  only  a  letter  which 
I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  carry  to  Tony.  Now  there  is 
no  necessity  that  you  should  go  at  all,  for  I  can  post 
it." 

She  produced  the  letter  from  a  pocket  of  her  coat 
as  she  spoke. 

"Ah,  but  will  it  reach  Stretton  if  you  do?"  said 
Warrisden. 

Pamela  had  already  seated  herself  at  the  table  and 
was  drawing  the  inkstand  towards  her.  She  paused 
at  Warrisden 's  question  and  looked  up. 

"Surely  Ain-Sefra,  Algeria,  will  find  him?" 

"Will  it?"  Warrisden  repeated.  He  sat  down  at 
the  table  opposite  to  her.     "Even  if  it  does,  will  it 

248 


THE   TRUANT 

reach  him  in  time?  You  say  the  need  is  urgent. 
Well,  it  was  last  summer  when  I  saw  the  post -mark  on 
the  envelope,  two  days  after  we  talked  together  in 
Lady  Millingham's  garden.  I  had  business  in  Lon- 
don." 

"I  remember,"  said  Pamela. 

"My  business  was  just  to  find  out  where  Stretton 
was  hiding  himself.  He  was  at  Ain-Sefra  then;  he 
may  be  at  Ain-Sefra  now.  But  it  is  a  small  post,  and 
he  may  not.  The  headquarters  of  the  Legion  are  at 
Sidi  Bel-Abbes,  in  the  north.  He  may  be  there,  or  he 
may  be  altogether  out  of  reach  on  some  Saharan  ex- 
pedition." 

There  was  yet  another  possibility  which  occurred  to 
both  their  minds  at  this  moment.  It  was  possible 
that  no  letter  would  ever  reach  Stretton  again;  that 
Warrisden,  searched  he  never  so  thoroughly,  would  not 
be  able  to  find  the  man  he  searched  for.  There  are  so 
many  graves  in  the  Sahara.  But  neither  of  them 
spoke  of  this  possibility,  though  a  quick  look  they  in- 
terchanged revealed  to  each  its  presence  in  the  other's 
thoughts. 

"Besides,  he  wanted  to  lie  hidden.  So  much  I 
know,  who  know  nothing  of  his  story.  Would  he  have 
enlisted  under  his  own  name,  do  you  think  ?  Or  even 
under  his  own  nationality  ?  It  is  not  the  common 
practice  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  And  that's  not  all. 
Even  were  he  soldiering  openly  under  his  own  name, 
how  will  you  address  your  letter  with  any^  likelihood 
that  it  will  reach  him?  Just  'La  Legion  Etrang^re  '  ? 
We  want  to  know  to  what  section  of  La  Legion  Etran- 
gere  he  belongs.  Is  he  chasseur,  artilleryman,  sapper? 
Perhaps  he  serves  in  the  cavalry.  Then  which  is  his 
squadron  ?     Is  he  a  plain  foot-soldier  ?     Then  in  what 

249 


THE  TRUANTS . 

battalion,  and  what  rank  does  he  occupy?  We  can- 
not answer  any  of  these  questions,  and,  unanswered, 
they  certainly  delay  your  letter;  they  may  prevent  it 
ever  reaching  him  at  all." 

Pamela  laid  down  her  pen  and  stared  blankly  at 
Warrisden.  He  piled  up  the  objections  one  by  one  in 
front  of  her  until  it  seemed  she  would  lose  Tony  once 
more  from  her  sight  after  she  had  got  him  for  a  mo- 
ment within  her  vision. 

"So  you  had  better  intrust  your  letter  to  me,"  he 
concluded.  "Address  it  to  Stretton  under  his  own 
name.  I  will  find  him  if  he  is  to  be  found,  never  fear. 
I  will  find  him  very  quickly." 

Pamela  addressed  the  letter.  Yet  she  held  it  for  a 
little  time  in  her  hand  after  it  was  addressed.  All  the 
while  Warrisden  had  been  speaking  she  had  felt  an 
impulse  strong  within  her  to  keep  him  back;  and  it 
was  because  of  that  impulse,  rather  than  with  any 
thought  of  Millie  Stretton  and  the  danger  in  which 
she  stood,  that  Pamela  asked,  doubtfully, 

"  How  long  will  you  be  ?" 

"I  should  find  him  within  ten  days." 

Pamela  smiled  suddenly. 

"It  is  not  so  very  long,"  said  she,  and  she  handed 
the  letter  across  to  Warrisden.  "Well,  go!"  she  cried, 
with  a  certain  effort.  "Telegraph  to  me  when  you 
have  found  Tony.  Bring  him  back,  and  come  back 
yourself."  She  added,  in  a  voice  which  was  very 
low  and  wistful,  "Please  come  back  soon!"  Then 
she  rose  from  the  table,  and  Warrisden  put  the  letter 
in  his  pocket  and  rose  too. 

"  You  will  be  at  home,  I  suppose,  in  ten  days  ?"  he  said. 

And  Pamela  said  quickly,  as  though  some  new  idea 
had  just  been  suggested  to  her  mind, 

250 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Oh,  wait  a  moment!" 

She  stood  quite  still  and  thoughtful.  There  was  a 
certain  test  by  which  she  had  meant  to  find  the  sound- 
ings of  her  heart.  Here  was  a  good  opportunity  to  apply 
the  test.  Warrisden  would  be  away  upon  his  journey; 
she  could  not  help  MiUie  Stretton  now  by  remaining 
in  England.     She  determined  to  apply  the  test. 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Telegraph  to  me  at  the 
Villa  Pontignard,  Roquebrune,  Alpes  Maritimes,  France. 
I  shall  be  travelling  thither  immediately." 

Her  decision  was  taken  upon  an  instant.  It  was 
the  logical  outcome  of  her  thoughts  and  of  Warrisden's 
departure;  and  since  Warrisden  went  because  of  Millie 
Stretton,  Pamela's  journey  to  the  south  of  France  was 
due,  in  a  measure,  to  that  lady,  too.  Yet  no  one 
would  have  been  more  astonished  than  Millie  Stretton 
had  she  learned  of  Pamela's  visit  at  this  time.  She 
would  have  been  quick  to  change  her  own  plans;  but 
she  had  no  knowledge  of  whither  Pamela's  thoughts 
were  leading  her.  When  Gallon  in  the  hansom-cab  had 
said  to  her,  "Come  south,"  her  first  swift  reflection 
had  been,  "Pamela  will  be  safe  in  England."  She  her- 
self had  refused  to  go  south  with  Pamela.  Pamela's  de- 
sire to  go  was  to  her  mind  a  mere  false  pretext  to  get 
her  away  from  her  one  friend.  If  she  did  not  go 
south,  she  was  very  sure  that  Pamela  would  not. 
There  had  seemed  to  her  no  safer  place  than  the 
Riviera.  But  she  was  wrong.  Here,  in  the  village 
of  the  three  poplars,  Pamela  had  made  her  decision. 

"I  shall  go  to  Roquebrune  as  soon  as  I  can  make 
arrangements  for  a  servant  or  two,"  she  said. 

"Roquebrune,"  said  Warrisden,  as  he  wrote  down 
the  address.  "  I  once  walked  up  a  long  flight  of  steps 
to  that  village  many  years  ago.     Perhaps  you  were  at 

251 


THE   TRUANTS 

the  villa  then.  I  wonder.  You  must  have  been  a  lit- 
tle girl.  It  was  one  February.  I  came  over  from 
Monte  Carlo,  and  we  walked  up  from  the  station.  We 
met  the  school-master." 

"M.  Giraud!"  exclaimed  Pamela. 

"Was  that  his  name?  He  had  written  a  little  his- 
tory of  the  village  and  the  Corniche  road.  He  took 
me  under  his  wing.  We  went  into  a  wine-shop  on 
the  first  floor  of  a  house  in  the  middle  of  the  village, 
and  we  sat  there  quite  a  long  time.  He  asked  us 
about  Paris  and  London  with  an  eagerness  which  was 
quite  pathetic.  He  came  down  with  us  to  the  station, 
and  his  questions  never  ceased.  I  suppose  he  was 
lonely  there." 

Pamela  nodded  her  head. 

"Very.  He  did  not  sleep  all  night  for  thinking  of 
what  you  had  told  him." 

"You  were  there,  then?"  cried  Warrisden. 

"Yes;  M.  Giraud  used  to  read  French  with  me.  He 
came  to  me  one  afternoon  quite  feverish.  Two  Eng- 
lishmen had  come  up  to  Roquebrune,  and  had  talked 
to  him  about  the  great  towns  and  the  lighted  streets. 
He  was  always  dreaming  of  them.  Poor  man,  he  is 
at  Roquebrune  still,  no  doubt." 

She  spoke  with  a  great  tenderness  and  pity,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  for  the  moment  altogether 
lost  to  her  surroundings.  Warrisden  roused  her  from 
her  reverie. 

"I  must  be  going  away." 

Pamela's  horse  was  brought  to  the  door  and  she 
mounted. 

"Walk  down  the  hill  beside  my  horse,"  she  said; 
"just  as  you  did  on  that  other  day,  when  the  hill  was 
slippery,  your  hand  upon  his  neck — so." 

252 


THE   TRUANTS 

Very  slowly  they  walked  down  the  hill.  There  were 
no  driving  mists  to-day,  the  evening  was  coming  with  a 
great  peace,  the  fields  and  woods  lay  spread  beneath 
them  toned  to  a  tranquil  gra}-.  The  white  road  glim- 
mered.    At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  Pamela  stopped. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  there  was  more  tender- 
ness in  her  voice  and  in  her  face  than  he  had  ever 
known.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  bent 
down  to  him. 

"Come  back  to  me,"  she  said,  wistfully,  "I  do  not 
like  letting  you  go ;  and  yet  I  am  rather  proud  to  know 
that  you  are  doing  something  for  me  which  I  could 
not  do  for  myself,  and  that  you  do  it  so  very  will- 
ingly." 

She  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  answer,  but  took  her 
hand  from  his  arm  and  rode  quickly  away.  That  turn- 
pike gate  of  friendship  had  already  swung  open  of  its 
own  accord.  As  she  rode  from  Quetta  that  evening, 
she  passed  beyond  it  and  went  gratefully  and  hope- 
fully, with  the  other  men  and  women,  down  the  ap- 
pointed road. 

She  knew  it  while  she  was  riding  homeward  to  the 
Croft  Hill.  She  knew  it  and  was  very  glad.  She 
rode  home  very  slowly  through  the  tranquil  evening 
and  gave  herself  up  to  joy.  It  was  warm,  and  there 
was  a  freshness  in  the  air  as  though  the  world  renewed 
itself.  Darkness  came ;  only  the  road  glimmered  ahead 
of  her — the  new  road,  which  was  the  old  road.  Even 
that  glimmer  of  white  had  almost  vanished  when  at 
last  she  saw  the  lighted  windows  of  her  father's  house. 
The  footman  told  her  that  dinner  was  alread}'-  served, 
but  she  ran  past  him  very  quickly  up  the  stairs,  and 
coming  to  her  own  room  locked  the  door  and  sat  for  a 
long  while  in  the  darkness,  her  blood  throbbing  in  her 

253 


THE   TRUANTS 

veins,  her  whole  heart  uphfted,  not  thinking  at  all, 
but  just  living,  and  living  most  joyfully.  She  sat  so 
still  that  she  might  have  been  in  a  swoon;  but  it  was 
the  stillness  of  perfect  happiness.  She  knew  the 
truth  that  night. 

But,  none  the  less,  she  travelled  south  towards  the 
end  of  the  week,  since  there  a  telegram  would  come  to 
her.  She  reached  the  Villa  Pontignard  in  the  after- 
noon, and  walked  through  the  familiar  rooms  which 
she  had  so  dreaded  ever  to  revisit.  She  went  out  to 
the  narrow  point  of  the  garden  where  so  often  she  had 
dreamed  with  M.  Giraud  of  the  outside  world,  its 
roaring  cities  and  its  jostle  of  people.  She  sat  down 
upon  the  parapet.  Below  her  the  cliff  fell  sheer,  and 
far  below,  in  the  darkness  at  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
the  water  tumbled  in  foam  with  a  distant  hum.  On 
the  opposite  hill  the  cypresses  stood  out  black  from 
the  brown  and  green.  Here  she  had  suffered  greatly, 
but  the  wounds  were  healed.  These  dreaded  places 
had  no  longer  power  to  hurt.  She  knew  that  very 
surely.  She  was  emancipated  from  sorrow,  and  as 
she  sat  there  in  the  still,  golden  afternoon,  the  sense 
of  freedom  ran  riot  in  her  blood.  She  looked  back 
over  the  years  to  the  dragging  days  of  misery,  the 
sleepless  nights.  She  felt  a  pity  for  the  young  girl  who 
had  then  looked  down  from  this  parapet  and  prayed 
for  death;  who  had  counted  the  many  years  of  life 
in  front  of  her;  who  had  bewailed  her  very  strength 
and  health.  But  ever  her  eyes  turned  towards  the 
Mediterranean  and  searched  the  horizon.  For  beyond 
that  blue,  calm  sea  stretched  the  coasts  of  Algeria. 

There  was  but  one  cloud  to  darken  Pamela's  happi- 
ness during  these  days  while  she  waited  for  Warrisden's 
telegram.     On  the  morning  after  she  had  arrived,  the 

254 


THE   TRUANTS 

old  cur^  climbed  from  the  village  to  visit  her.  Almost 
Pamela's  first  question  was  of  M.  Giraud. 

"He  is  still  here?" 

"Yes,  he  is  still  here,"  replied  the  cut6,  but  he  pursed 
up  his  lips  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  must  send  for  him,"  said  Pamela. 

The  cure  said  nothing.  He  was  standing  by  the 
window,  and  almost  imperceptibly  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  as  though  he  doubted  her  wisdom.  In  a 
moment  Pamela  was  at  his  side. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  gently.     "Tell  me." 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  there  is  httle  to  tell!  He  is  not 
the  school-master  you  once  knew.  That  is  all.  The 
wine-shop  has  made  the  difference — the  wine-shop  and 
discontent.  He  was  always  dissatisfied,  you  know. 
It  is  a  pity." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Pamela,  gravely,  "so  very 
sorry." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  greatly  troubled  by 
the  curb's  news. 

"Has  he  married?"  she  asked. 

"No." 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had." 

"No  doubt,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  cur6,  "but  he 
has  not,  and  I  think  it  is  now  too  late." 

Pamela  did  not  send  for  M.  Giraud.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  do  no  good  even  if  at  her  request  he 
came  to  her.  She  would  be  going  away  in  a  few  days. 
She  would  only  hurt  him  and  put  him  to  shame  before 
her.  She  took  no  step  towards  a  renewal  of  their 
friendship,  and,  though  she  did  not  avoid  him,  she 
never  came  across  him  in  her  walks. 

For  ten  days  she  walked  the  old  hill-paths,  and 
dreams  came  to  her  with  the  sunlight.     They  gave  her 

255 


THE   TRUANTS 

company  in  the  evenings,  too,  when  she  looked  from 
her  garden  upon  the  quiet  sea  and  saw,  away  upon 
the  right,  the  hghts,  hke  great  jewels,  burning  on  the 
terrace  of  Monte  Carlo.  She  went  down  one  morning 
onto  that  terrace,  and,  while  seated  upon  a  bench, 
suddenly  saw,  at  a  little  distance,  the  back  of  a  man 
which  was  familiar  to  her. 

She  was  not  sure,  but  she  was  chilled  with  apprehen- 
sion. She  watched  from  behind  her  newspaper,  and 
in  a  little  while  she  was  sure,  for  the  man  turned  and 
showed  his  face.  It  was  Lionel  Gallon.  What  was 
he  doing  here,  she  asked  herself.  And  another  ques- 
tion trod  fast  upon  the  heels  of  the  first — "Was  he 
alone?" 

Gallon  was  alone  on  this  morning,  at  all  events. 
Pamela  saw  him  speak  to  one  or  two  people  and  then 
mount  the  terrace  steps  towards  the  town.  She  gave 
him  a  little  time,  and  then,  walking  through  the  gar- 
dens, bought  a  visitors'  list  at  the  kiosk  in  front  of  the 
rooms.  She  found  Gallon's  name.  He  was  the  only 
visitor  at  a  reserve,  on  the  Gorniche  road,  which  was 
rather  a  restaurant  than  a  hotel.  She  searched  through 
the  list,  fearing  to  find  the  name  of  Millie  Stretton 
under  the  heading  of  some  other  hotel.  To  her  relief 
it  was  not  there.  It  was  possible,  of  course,  that  Gallon 
was  merely  taking  a  holiday  by  himself.  She  wished 
to  believe  that,  and  yet  there  was  a  fear  speaking  loud- 
ly at  her  heart.  "Suppose  that  Tony  should  return 
too  late  just  by  a  few  days!"  She  was  still  holding  the 
paper  in  her  hands  when  she  heard  her  name  called, 
and,  turning  about,  saw  some  friends.  She  lunched 
with  them  at  Giro's,  and  asked,  carelessly,  during 
luncheon, 

"You  have  not  seen  Millie  Stretton,  I  suppose?" 

256 


'THE    MAX    TURNED    AND    SHOWED    HIS    FACE.        IT    WAS    LIONEL 

GALLON  " 


THE   TRUANTS 

"No,"  they  all  replied.  And  one  asked:  "Is  she 
expected  ?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  will  come  or  not," 
Pamela  replied.  "I  asked  her  to  come  with  me,  but 
she  could  not  do  that,  and  she  was  not  sure  that  she 
would  come  at  all." 

This  she  said,  thinking  that  if  Millie  did  arrive  it 
might  seem  that  she  came  because  Pamela  herself  was 
there.  Pamela  went  back  to  Roquebrune  that  after- 
noon, and,  after  she  had  walked  through  the  village 
and  had  come  out  on  the  slope  of  hill  above,  she  met 
the  postman  coming  down  from  the  Villa  Pontignard. 

"You  have  a  telegram  for  me?"  she  said,  anxiously. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  "I  have  just  left  it  at 
the  house." 

Pamela  hurried  on,  and  found  the  telegram  in  the 
salon.  She  tore  it  open.  It  was  from  Warrisden.  It 
told  her  that  Tony  Stretton  was  found,  and  would  re- 
turn. It  gave  the  news  in  vague  and  guarded  lan- 
guage, mentioning  no  names.  But  Pamela  understood 
the  message.  Tony  Stretton  was  actually  coming  back. 
"Would  he  come  too  late?"  she  asked,  gazing  out  in 
fear  across  the  sea.  Of  any  trouble,  out  there  in  Al- 
geria, which  might  delay  his  return,  she  did  not  think 
at  all.  If  it  was  true  that  he  had  enlisted  in  the  Le- 
gion, there  might  be  obstacles  to  a  quick  return.  But 
such  matters  were  not  in  her  thoughts.  She  thought 
only  of  Gallon  upon  the  terrace  of  Monte  Carlo.  "Would 
Tony  come  too  late?"  she  asked;  and  she  prayed  that 
he  might  come  in  time. 

17 


XXIV 
THE  END  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

THE  village  of  Ain  -  Sefra  stands  upon  a  high  and 
fertile  oasis  on  the  very  borders  of  Morocco.  The 
oasis  is  well  watered,  and  the  date-palm  grows  thickly 
there.  It  hes  far  to  the  south.  The  railway,  in  the 
days  when  Tony  Stretton  served  in  the  Foreign  Legion, 
did  not  reach  to  it;  the  barracks  were  newly  built,  the 
parade-ground  newly  enclosed ;  and  if  one  looked  south- 
ward from  any  open  space,  one  saw  a  tawny  belt  of 
sand  in  the  extreme  distance  streak  across  the  horizon 
from  east  to  west.  That  is  the  beginning  of  the  great 
Sahara.  Tony  Stretton  could  never  see  that  belt  of 
sand  but  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  terrible  home- 
ward march  from  Bir-el-Gharamo  to  Ouargla.  From 
east  to  west  the  Sahara  stretched  across  Africa,  break- 
ing the  soldiers  who  dared  to  violate  its  privacy,  thrust- 
ing them  back  maimed  and  famine-stricken,  jealously 
guarding  its  secrets,  and  speaking,  by  its  very  silence, 
its  terrible  "thus  far  and  no  farther,"  no  less  audibly 
and  a  thousand  times  more  truthfully  than  ever  did 
the  waves  of  the  sea. 

On  one  noonday  Stretton  mounted  the  steps  onto 
the  veranda  of  the  hospital.  He  looked  across  open 
country  to  the  great  yellow  line.  He  thought  of  the 
Touaregs  hanging  persistently  upon  the  flanks  of  his 
tiny  force,  the  long,  laborious  days  of  thirst  and  hun- 
ger, the  lengthening  trail  of  graves  which  he  left  be- 

258 


THE   TRUANTS 

hind  —  those  mile-stones  of  invasion.  He  felt  as 
though  the  desert  gripped  him  again  and  would  not 
loose  its  hold,  clinging  to  his  feet  with  each  step  he 
took  in  the  soft,  yielding  sand.  He  had  brought  back 
his  handful  of  men,  it  was  true;  they  had  stumbled 
into  Ouargla  at  the  last,  but  there  were  few  of  them 
who  were  men  as  good  as  they  had  been  when  they  had 
set  out.  Even  the  best,  it  almost  seemed  to  him,  had 
lost  something  of  vitality  which  they  would  never  re- 
cover; had  a  look  fixed  in  their  eyes  which  set  them 
apart  from  their  fellows — the  look  of  those  who  have 
endured  too  much,  who  gazed  for  too  long  a  time  upon 
horrors;  while  the  others  were  for  the  most  part  only 
fit  to  squat  in  the  shade  and  to  wait  for  things  to  cease. 
There  was  one  whom  Stretton  had  passed  only  a  min- 
ute before  sitting  on  the  ground  under  the  shadow  of 
the  barrack-wall.  Stretton  was  haunted  by  the  pict- 
ure of  that  man,  for  he  was  the  only  white  man  he  had 
ever  seen  who  did  not  trouble  to  raise  a  hand  to  brush 
away  the  flies  from  his  face,  but  allowed  them  to  settle 
and  cluster  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

There  was  another  in  the  hospital  behind  him.  Him 
the  Sahara  definitely  claimed.  Stretton  turned  and 
walked  into  the  building. 

He  passed  down  the  line  of  beds,  and  stopped  where  a 
man  lay  tossing  in  a  fever.   Stretton  leaned  over  the  bed. 

"Barbier,"  he  said. 

Fusilier  Barbier  had  grown  very  gaunt  and  thin  dur- 
ing these  latter  weeks.  He  turned  his  eyes  upon 
Stretton,  and  muttered  incoherently.  But  there  was 
recognition  neither  in  his  eyes  nor  in  his  voice.  An 
orderly  approached  the  bed  as  Stretton  stood  beside  it; 
and,  in  a  low  voice,  lest,  haply,  Barbier  should  hear 
and  understand,  Tony  asked : 

259 


THE   TRUANTS 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?" 

"Nothing  good,  my  sergeant,"  the  orderly  repHed, 
with  an  expressive  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Stretton,  gravely. 

Certainly  Barbier  looked  to  be  lying  at  death's  door. 
One  hand  and  arm,  emaciated  and  the  color  of  wax, 
lay  outside  upon  the  coverlet  of  the  bed.  His  eyes, 
unnaturally  lustrous,  unnaturally  large,  shone  deep- 
sunken  in  dark,  purple  rings.  His  eyelids  were  red, 
as  though  with  much  weeping,  and,  below  the  eyes,  his 
face  was  drawn  with  fever  and  very  white.  Stretton 
laid  his  hand  gently  upon  Barbier's  forehead.  It  was 
burning  hot.  Stretton  dismissed  the  orderly  with  a 
nod.  There  was  a  haggard  nobility  in  Barbier's  ap- 
pearance— his  long,  finely  shaped  hands,  his  lithe,  well- 
knit  figure,  all  betrayed  the  man  of  race.  Yet  he  had 
once  sunk  to  babbling  about  persecution  at  a  fire  in 
the  desert,  like  any  morbid  child. 

A  heavy  step  sounded  in  the  ward,  and  Stretton's 
colonel  stood  beside  him,  a  stoutly  built  man,  with  a 
white  mustache  and  imperial,  and  a  stern  yet  not  un- 
kindly face.  It  expressed  a  deal  of  solicitude  at  this 
moment. 

"I  have  seen  the  doctor  this  morning,"  said  the 
colonel,  "and  he  has  given  up  hope.  Barbier  will 
hardly  live  out  the  night.  They  should  never  have 
sent  him  to  us  here.  They  should  not  have  discharged 
him  from  the  asylum  as  cured." 

The  idea  of  persecution  had  become  fixed  in  Bar- 
bier's brain.  It  had  never  left  him  since  the  evening 
when  he  first  gave  utterance  to  it  in  the  desert.  The 
homeward  march,  indeed,  had  aggravated  his  mania. 
On  his  return  he  had  been  sent  to  the  asylum  at  Bel- 
Abbes,  but  there  he  had  developed  cunning  enough 

260 


THE   TRUANTS 

to  conceal  his  hallucination.  He  had  ceased  to  com- 
plain that  his  officers  were  in  a  conspiracy  to  entrap 
and  ruin  him,  no  more  threats  were  heard,  no  more 
dangerous,  stealthy  glances  detected.  He  was  sent 
back  to  his  battalion  at  Ain-Sefra.  A  few  weeks  and 
again  his  malady  was  manifest,  and  on  the  top  of  that 
had  come  fever. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  Stretton  said  again;  and  then, 
after  looking  about  him  and  perceiving  that  the  or- 
derly was  out  of  earshot,  he  bent  down  towards  Bar- 
bier,,  lower  than  he  had  bent  before,  and  he  called  upon 
him  in  a  still  lower  voice. 

But  Barbier  was  no  longer  the  name  he  used. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  he  said,  first  of  all,  and  then 
"Monsieur  de — "  He  uttered  a  name  which  the  gen- 
eration before  had  made  illustrious  in  French  diplo- 
macy. 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  Barbier's  face  contracted. 
He  started  up  in  his  bed  upon  one  arm. 

"Hush!"  he  cried.  A  most  extraordinary  change 
had  come  over  him  in  a  second.  His  eyes  protruded, 
his  mouth  hung  half  open,  his  face  was  frozen  into 
immobility  by  horror.  "There  is  some  one  on  the 
stairs,"  he  whispered,  "coming up — some  one  treading 
very  lightly — but  coming  up — coming  up."  He  in- 
clined his  head  in  the  strained  attitude  of  one  listening 
with  a  great  concentration  and  intentness,  an  image 
of  terror  and  suspense.  "  Yes,  coming  up — coming  up ! 
Don't  lock  the  door!  That  betrays  all.  Turn  out  the 
lights!     Quickly!     So.     Oh,  will  this  night  ever  pass!" 

He  ended  with  a  groan  of  despair.  Very  gently 
Stretton  laid  him  down  again  in  the  bed  and  covered 
him  over  with  the  clothes.  The  sweat  rolled  in  drops 
from  Barbier's  forehead. 

261 


THE   TRUANTS 

"He  never  tells  us  more,  my  colonel,"  said  Stretton. 
"His  real  name — yes! — he  betrayed  that  once  to  me. 
But  of  this  night  nothing  more  than  the  dread  that  it 
will  never  pass.  Always  he  ends  with  those  words. 
Yet  it  was  that  night,  no  doubt,  which  tossed  him  be- 
yond the  circle  of  his  friends  and  dropped  him  down 
here,  a  man  without  a  name,  among  the  soldiers  of  the 
Legion." 

Often  Stretton's  imagination  had  sought  to  pierce  the 
mystery.  What  thing  of  horror  had  been  done  upon 
that  night  ?  In  what  town  of  France?  Had  the  some 
one  on  the  stairs  turned  the  handle  and  entered  the 
room  when  all  the  lights  were  out  ?  Had  he  heard  Bar- 
bier's  breathing  in  the  silent  darkness  of  the  room? 
Stretton  could  only  reconstruct  the  scene.  The 
stealthy  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  the  cautious  turning 
of  the  door  handle,  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  the 
impenetrable  blackness,  with  one  man,  perhaps  more 
than  one,  holding  his  breath  somewhere  and  crouch- 
ing by  the  wall.  But  no  hint  escaped  the  sick  man's 
lips  of  what  there  was  which  must  needs  be  hidden, 
nor  whether  the  thing  which  must  needs  be  hidden 
was  discovered  by  the  one  who  trod  so  lightly  on  the 
stairs.  Was  it  a  dead  man  ?  Was  it  a  dead  woman  ? 
Or  a  woman  alive?  There  was  no  answer.  There 
was  no  knowledge  to  be  gained,  it  seemed,  but  this — 
that  because  of  that  night  a  man  in  evening  dress, 
who  bore  an  illustrious  name,  had  fled  at  daybreak 
on  a  summer  morning  to  the  nearest  barracks,  and 
had  buried  his  name  and  all  of  his  past  life  in  the  For- 
eign Legion. 

As  it  happened,  there  was  just  a  little  more  knowl- 
edge to  be  gained  by  Stretton.  He  learned  it  that 
morning  from  his  colonel. 

262 


THE   TRUANTS 

"When  you  told  me  who  'Barbier'  really  was,  ser- 
geant," said  the  colonel,  "  I  made  inquiries.  Barbier's 
father  died  two  years  ago;  but  an  uncle  and  a  sister 
lived.  I  wrote  to  both,  offering  to  send  their  relation 
back  to  them.  Well,  the  mail  has  this  morning  come 
in  from  France. 

"There  is  an  answer,  sir?"  asked  Stretton. 

"From  the  uncle,"  replied  the  colonel.  "Not  a 
word  from  the  sister;  she  does  not  mean  to  write.  The 
uncle's  letter  makes  that  clear,  I  think.  Read!"  He 
handed  the  letter  to  Stretton.  A  check  was  enclosed, 
and  a  few  words  were  added. 

"See,  if  you  please,  that  Barbier  wants  for  nothing 
which  can  minister  to  body  and  soul." 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  word  of  kindliness  or 
affection.  Barbier  was  dying.  Let  him,  therefore, 
have  medicine  and  prayers.  Love,  wishes  for  re- 
covery, a  desire  that  he  should  return  to  his  friends, 
forgiveness  for  the  thing  which  he  had  done,  pity  for 
the  sufferings  which  had  fallen  to  him — these  things 
Fusilier  Barbier  must  not  expect.  Stretton,  reading 
the  letter  by  the  sick  man's  bed,  thought  it  heartless 
and  callous  as  no  letter  written  by  a  human  hand  had 
ever  been.  Yet — yet,  after  all,  who  knew  what  had 
happened  on  that  night  ?  The  uncle,  evidently.  It 
might  be  something  which  dishonored  the  family  be- 
yond all  reparation;  which,  if  known,  would  have  dis- 
graced a  great  name,  so  that  those  who  bore  it  in  pride 
must  now  change  it  for  very  shame.  Perhaps  the 
father  had  died  because  of  it,  perhaps  the  sister  had 
been  stricken  down.  Stretton  handed  the  letter  back 
to  his  colonel. 

"It  is  very  sad,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  sad,"  returned  the  colonel.     "But 

263 


THE   TRUANTS 

for  us  this  letter  means  nothing  at  all.  Never  speak 
of  it;  obliterate  it  from  your  memory."  He  tore  the 
paper  into  the  tiniest  shreds.  "We  have  no  reproaches, 
no  accusations  for  what  Barbier  did  before  Barbier  got 
out  of  the  train  at  Sidi  Bel-Abbes.  That  is  not  our 
affair.  For  us  the  soldier  of  the  Legion  is  only  born 
on  the  day  when  he  enlists." 

Thus,  in  one  sentence,  the  colonel  epitomized  the 
character  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  It  was  a  fine  saying, 
Stretton  thought.     He  knew  it  to  be  a  true  one. 

"I  will  say  nothing,"  said  Stretton,  "and  I  will  for- 
get." 

"That  is  well.  Come  with  me,  for  there  is  another 
letter  which  concerns  you." 

He  turned  upon  his  heel  and  left  the  hospital.  Stret- 
ton followed  him  to  his  quarters. 

"There  is  a  letter  from  the  War  Office  which  con- 
cerns you.  Sergeant  Ohlsen,"  said  the  colonel,  with 
a  smile.  "You  will  be  gazetted,  under  your  own 
name,  to  the  first  lieutenancy  which  falls  vacant. 
There  is  the  notification." 

He  handed  the  paper  over  to  Stretton  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  Stretton  was  not  a  demonstrative 
man.  He  took  the  notification  with  no  more  show  of 
emotion  than  if  it  had  been  some  unimportant  order 
of  the  day. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  for  a  moment 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  paper. 

But,  none  the  less,  the  announcement,  so  abruptly 
made,  caused  him  a  shock.  The  words  danced  before 
his  eyes  so  that  he  could  not  read  them.  He  saluted 
his  colonel  and  went  out  onto  the  great  open  parade- 
ground,  and  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  that  space, 
alone,  under  the  hot  noonday  sun. 

264 


THE   TRUANTS 

The  thing  for  which  he  had  striven  had  come  to  pass, 
then.  He  held  the  assurance  of  it  in  his  hand.  Hoped 
for  and  half  expected  as  that  proof  had  been  ever  since 
he  had  led  the  survivors  of  the  geographical  expedition 
under  the  gate  of  Ouargla,  its  actual  coming  was  to  him 
most  wonderful.  He  looked  southward  to  where  the 
streak  of  yellow  shone  far  away.  The  long  marches, 
the  harassing  anxiety,  the  haunting  figures  of  the 
Touaregs,  with  their  faces  veiled  in  their  black  masks 
and  their  eyes  shining  between  the  upper  and  the  lower 
strip  —  yes,  even  those  figures  which  appalled  the 
imagination  in  the  retrospect  by  a  suggestion  of  in- 
human ferocity — what  were  they  all  but  contributories 
to  this  event  ?  His  ordeal  was  over.  He  had  done 
enough.     He  could  go  home. 

Stretton  did  not  want  for  modesty.  He  had  won  a 
commission  from  the  ranks,  it  is  true;  but  he  realized 
that  others  had  done  this  before,  and  under  harder  con- 
ditions. He  himself  had  started  with  an  advantage — 
the  advantage  of  previous  service  in  the  English  army. 
His  knowledge  of  the  manual  exercise,  of  company  and 
battalion  drill,  had  been  of  the  greatest  use  at  the  first. 
He  had  had  luck,  too — the  luck  to  be  sent  on  the  ex- 
pedition to  the  Figuig  oasis,  the  luck  to  find  himself 
sergeant  with  Captain  Tavernay's  force.  His  heart 
went  out  in  gratitude  to  that  true  friend  who  lay  in  his 
bed  of  sand  so  far  away.  Undoubtedly,  he  reaUzed, 
his  luck  had  been  exceptional. 

He  turned  away  from  the  parade-ground  and  walked 
through  the  village,  and  out  of  it  towards  a  grove  of 
palm-trees.  Under  the  shade  of  those  trees  he  laid 
himself  down  on  the  ground  and  made  out  his  plans. 
He  would  obtain  his  commission,  secure  his  release,  and 
so  go  home.     A  few  months  and  he  would  be  home! 

265 


THE  TRUANTS 

It  seemed  hardly  credible;  yet  it  was  true,  miraculous- 
ly true.  He  would  write  home  that  very  day.  It  was 
not  any  great  success  which  he  had  achieved,  but,  at 
all  events,  he  was  no  longer  the  man  who  was  no  good. 
He  could  write  with  confidence;  he  could  write  to 
Milhe. 

He  lay  under  the  shadow  of  the  palms  looking  across 
to  the  village.  There  rose  a  little  mosque  with  a  white 
dome.  The  hovels  were  thatched  for  the  most  part, 
but  here  and  there  a  square,  whitewashed  house,  with 
a  flat  roof,  overtopped  the  rest.  Hedges  of  cactus  and 
prickly-pears  walled  in  the  narrow  lanes,  and  now  and 
then  a  white  robe  appeared  and  vanished.  Very  soon 
Stretton  would  turn  his  back  upon  Algeria.  In  the 
after-time  he  would  remember  this  afternoon,  remem- 
ber the  village  as  he  saw  it  now,  and  the  yellow  streak 
of  desert  sand  in  the  distance. 

Stretton  lay  on  his  back  and  put  together  the  sen- 
tences which  he  would  write  that  day  to  Millie.  She 
would  get  the  letter  within  ten  days — easily.  He  be- 
gan to  hum  over  to  himself  the  words  of  the  coon  song 
which  had  once  been  sung  on  a  summer  night  in  an 
island  of  Scotland: 

"  '  Oh,  come  out,  mah  love.     I'm  a-waitin'  fo'  you  heah! 
Doan'  you  keep  yuh  window  shut  to-night. 
De  tree-tops  above  am  a-whisp'rin'  to  you,  deah — '  " 

And  then  he  stopped  suddenly.  At  last  he  began  to 
wonder  how  Millie  would  receive  the  letter  he  was  to 
write. 

Yes,  there  was  her  point  of  view  to  be  considered. 
Stretton  was  stubborn  by  nature  as  few  men  are.  He 
had  convinced  himself  that  the  course  he  had  taken 
was  the  only   course  which  promised  happiness  for 

266 


THE   TRUANTS 

Millie  and  himself,  and,  impelled  by  that  conviction,  he 
had  gone  on  his  way  undisturbed  by  doubts  and  ques- 
tions. Now,  however,  his  object  was  achieved.  He 
could  claim  exemption  from  his  wife's  contempt.  His 
mind  had  room  for  other  thoughts,  and  they  came  that 
afternoon. 

He  had  left  his  wife  alone,  with  no  explanation  of  his 
absence  to  offer  to  her  friends,  without  even  any  knowl- 
edge of  his  whereabouts.  There  had  been  no  other 
way,  he  still  believed.  But  it  was  hard  on  Millie — un- 
doubtedly it  was  hard. 

Stretton  rose  from  the  ground  and  set  off  towards 
the  camp  that  he  might  write  his  letter.  But  he  never 
wrote  it,  for  as  he  walked  along  the  lane  towards  the 
barracks  a  man  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  from  be- 
hind. He  was  still  humming  his  song,  and  he  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  it: 

"  '  Jus'  look  out  an'  see  all  de  longin'  in  mah  eyes, 
An'  mah  arms  is  jus'  a-pinin'  foh  to  hug  you,'  " 

he  said,  and  turned  about  on  his  heel.  He  saw  a 
stranger  in  European  dress,  who  at  once  spoke  his 
name. 

"Sir  Anthony  Stretton?" 

Stretton  was  no  longer  seeking  to  evade  discovery. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  The  stranger's  face  became  vaguely 
familiar  to  him.     "I  have  seen  you  before,  I  think." 

"Once,"  replied  the  other.  "My  name  is  Warris- 
den.  You  saw  me  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  deck  of  a 
fish-carrier  in  the  North  Sea." 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Yes,  to  be  sure,  I 
did.  You  were  sent  to  find  me  by  Miss  Pamela  Mar- 
dale." 

"She  sends  me  again,"  replied  Warrisden. 

267 


THE   TRUANTS 

Stretton's  heart  sank  in  fear.  He  had  disobeyed  the 
summons  before.  He  remembered  Pamela's  promise 
to  befriend  his  wife.  He  remembered  her  warning 
that  he  should  not  leave  his  wife. 

"She  sent  you  then  with  an  urgent  message  that  I 
should  return  home,"  he  said. 

"I  carry  the  same  message  again,  only  it  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  urgent." 

He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke  and 
handed  it  to  Stretton.  "I  was  to  give  you  this,"  he 
said. 

Stretton  looked  at  the  handwriting  and  nodded. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  gravely. 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read. 


XXV 

TONY    STRETTON    BIDS    FAREWELL    TO    THE 

LEGION 

IT  was  a  long  letter.     Tony  read  it  through  slowly, 
standing  in  the  narrow  lane  between  the  high  walls 
of  prickly-pear.     A  look  of  incredulity  came  upon  his 

face. 

"Is  all  this  true?"  he  asked,  not  considering  at  all 
of  whom  he  asked  the  question. 

"I  know  nothing,  of  course,  of  what  is  written  there," 
repHed  Warrisden ;  "  but  I  do  not  doubt  its  truth.  The 
signature  is,  I  think,  sufficient  guarantee." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  Stretton,  absently. 
Then  he  asked: 

"When  did  you  reach  Ain-Sefra?" 

"This  morning." 

"And  you  came  quickly?" 

"Yes;  I  travelled  night  and  day.  I  came  first  of  all 
to  Ain-Sefra  in  search  of  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Stretton. 

He  did  not  ask  how  it  was  that  Warrisden  had  come 
first  of  all  to  Ain-Sefra;  such  details  held  no  place  in  his 
thoughts.  Warrisden  had  found  him,  had  brought  the 
letter  which  Pamela  Mardale  had  written.  That  letter, 
with  its  perplexities  and  its  consequences,  obliterated 
all  other  speculations. 

"You  have  a  camp  here?"  Stretton  asked. 

"Yes." 

269 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Let  us  go  to  it.  The  news  you  have  brought  has 
rather  stunned  me.  I  should  Hke  to  sit  down  and 
think  what  I  must  do." 

The  increduHty  had  vanished  from  his  face.  Dis- 
tress had  replaced  it. 

"It  is  all  true,  no  doubt,"  he  went  on,  "but  for  the 
moment  I  don't  understand  it.  Will  you  tell  me  where 
your  camp  is?" 

"I  will  show  you  the  way,"  said  Warrisden 

"I  think  not.  It  will  be  better  that  we  should  not 
be  seen  together,"  Stretton  said,  thoughtfully.  "Will 
you  give  me  the  direction  and  go  first  ?     I  will  follow." 

Warrisden's  camp  was  pitched  among  trees  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  western  borders  of  the  village.  It 
stood  in  a  garden  of  grass,  enclosed  with  hedges.  Thither 
Stretton  found  his  way  by  a  roundabout  road,  ap- 
proaching the  camp  from  the  side  opposite  to  Ain-Sefra. 
There  was  no  one,  at  the  moment,  loitering  about  the 
spot.  He  walked  into  the  garden.  There  were  three 
tents  pitched.  Half  a  dozen  mules  stood  picketed  in  a 
line,  a  little  Barbary  horse  lay  on  the  grass,  some  Al- 
gerian muleteers  were  taking  their  ease,  and  outside 
the  chief  tent  a  couple  of  camp-chairs  were  placed. 
Warrisden  came  forward  as  Stretton  entered  the  gar- 
den. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

"  Inside  the  tent,  I  think,"  replied  Stretton. 

There  he  read  the  letter  through  again.  He  under- 
stood at  last  what  Pamela  had  meant  by  the  warning 
which  had  baffled  him.  Pamela  revealed  its  meaning 
now.  "Millie  is  not  of  those  women,"  she  wrote,  "who 
have  a  vivid  remembrance.  To  hold  her,  you  must  be 
near  her.  Go  away,  she  will  cry  her  eyes  out;  stay 
away  for  a  little  while,  she  will  long  for  your  return; 

270 


THE   TRUANTS 

make  that  little  while  a  longer  time,  she  will  grow  in- 
different whether  you  return  or  not;  prolong  that  longer 
time,  she  will  regard  your  return  as  an  awkwardness,  a 
disturbance;  add  yet  a  little  more  to  that  longer  time, 
and  you  will  find  another  occupying  your  place  in  her 
thoughts."  Then  followed  an  account  of  the  growth 
of  that  dangerous  friendship  between  Millie  and  Lionel 
Gallon.  A  summary  of  Gallon's  character  rounded  the 
description  off.  "So  come  home,"  she  concluded,  "at 
once,  for  no  real  harm  has  been  done  yet." 

Stretton  understood  what  the  last  sentence  meant, 
and  he  believed  it.  Yet  his  mind  revolted  against  the 
phrase.  Of  course,  it  was  Pamela's  phrase.  Pamela, 
though  frank,  was  explaining  the  position  in  words 
which  could  best  spare  Millie.  But  it  was  an  unfortu- 
nate sentence.  It  provoked  a  momentary  wave  of  dis- 
gust, which  swept  over  Stretton.  There  was  a  post- 
script: "You  yourself  are  really  a  good  deal  to  blame." 
Thus  it  ran ;  but  Stretton  was  in  no  mood  to  weigh  its 
justice  or  injustice  at  the  moment.  Only  this  after- 
noon he  had  been  lying  under  the  palm-trees  putting 
together  in  his  mind  the  sentences  which  were  to  tell 
Millie  of  his  success,  to  re-establish  him  in  her  esteem, 
and  to  prepare  her  for  his  return.  And  now  this  letter 
had  come.  He  sat  for  a  time  frowning  at  the  letter, 
turning  its  pages  over,  glancing  now  at  one  phrase,  now 
at  another.  Then  he  folded  it  up.  "Gallon,"  he  said, 
softly ;  and  then  again, ' '  Lionel  Gallon.  I  will  talk  with 
Mr.  Gallon."  For  all  its  softness,  his  voice  sounded  to 
Warrisden  the  voice  of  a  dangerous  man.  And  after 
he  had  spoken  in  this  way  he  sat  in  thought,  saying 
nothing,  making  no  movement,  and  his  face  gave  War- 
risden no  clew  as  to  what  he  thought.  At  the  last  he 
stirred  in  his  chair. 

271 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Well?"  said  Warrisden. 

"I  shall  return  at  once  to  England.' 

"You  can?" 

"Yes;  I  shall  start  to-night,"  said  Stretton. 

"We  can  go  back  together,  then." 

"No;  that's  impossible." 

"Why?"  asked  Warrisden. 

"Because  I  should  be  arrested  if  we  did,"  Stretton 
replied,  calmly. 

"Arrested?"  Warrisden  exclaimed. 

"Yes;  you  see  I  shall  have  to  desert  to-night." 

Warrisden  started  from  his  chair. 

"Surely  there  is  an  alternative?" 

"None,"  repHed  Stretton;  and  Warrisden  slowly  re- 
sumed his  seat.  He  was  astounded;  he  had  never 
contemplated  this  possibility.  He  looked  at  Stretton 
in  wonder.  He  could  not  understand  how  a  man 
could  speak  so  calmly  of  such  a  plan.  Why  in  the 
world  had  Stretton  ever  joined  the  Legion  if  he  was  so 
ready,  at  the  first  summons,  to  desert  ?  There  seemed 
an  inconsistency.  But  he  did  not  know  Tony  Stret- 
ton. 

"You  are  surprised,"  said  Tony.  "More  than  sur- 
prised— you  are  rather  shocked ;  but  there  is  no  choice 
for  me.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  there  were," 
he  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of  passion.  "I 
have  foreseen  this  necessity  ever  since  you  tapped 
me  on  the  shoulder  in  the  lane.  Because  I  foresaw  it, 
I  would  not  walk  with  you  to  your  camp.  Were  we 
seen  together  to-day,  the  reason  of  my  absence  might 
be  the  sooner  suspected.  As  it  is,  I  shall  get  a  day's 
start,  for  I  have  a  good  name  in  the  regiment,  and  a 
day's  start  is  all  I  need." 

He  spoke  sadly  and  wistfully.     He  was  caught  by 

272 


THE   TRUANTS 

an  inexorable  fate,  and  knew  it.  He  just  had  to  ac- 
cept the  one  course  open  to  him. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "I  am  a  soldier  of  the 
Legion — that  is  to  say,  I  enlisted  for  five  years'  ser- 
vice in  the  French  colonies.     I  could  not  get  leave." 

"Five  years!"  cried  Warrisden.  "You  meant  to 
stay  five  years  away?" 

"No,"  replied  Stretton.  "If  things  went  well  with 
me  here,  as  up  till  to-day  they  have  done — if,  in  a  word, 
I  did  what  I  enlisted  to  do — I  should  have  gone  to  work 
to  buy  myself  out  and  get  free.  That  can  be  done 
with  a  little  influence  and  time — only  time  is  the  one 
thing  I  have  not  now.  I  must  go  home  at  once,  since 
no  harm  has  yet  been  done.  Therefore  I  must  desert. 
I  am  very  sorry" — and  again  the  wistfulness  became 
very  audible — "for,  as  I  say,  I  have  a  good  name; 
among  both  officers  and  men  I  have  a  good  name.  I 
should  have  liked  very  much  to  have  left  a  good  name 
behind  me.  Sergeant  Ohlsen"  —  and  as  he  uttered 
the  name  he  smiled.  "They  speak  well  of  Sergeant 
Ohlsen  in  the  Legion,  Warrisden;  and  to-morrow 
they  will  not.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  have  good  friends 
among  both  officers  and  men.  I  shall  have  lost  them 
all  to-morrow.  I  am  sorry.  There  is  only  one  thing 
of  which  I  am  glad  to-day.  I  am  glad  that  Captain 
Tavernay  is  dead." 

Warrisden  knew  nothing  at  all  of  Captain  Tavernay. 
Until  this  moment  he  had  never  heard  his  name.  But 
Stretton  was  speaking  with  a  simpHcity  so  sincere,  and 
so  genuine  a  sorrow,  that  Warrisden  could  not  but  be 
deeply  moved.  He  forgot  the  urgency  of  his  summons ; 
he  ceased  to  think  how  greatly  Stretton's  immediate 
return  would  help  his  own  fortunes.  He  cried  out 
upon  the  impulse: 

i8  273 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Stay,  then,  until  you  can  get  free  without — "  And 
he  stopped,  keeping  unspoken  the  word  upon  his  Hps. 

"Without  disgrace." 

Stretton  finished  the  sentence  with  a  smile. 

"Say  it!  Without  disgrace.  That  was  the  word 
upon  your  tongue.  I  can't  avoid  disgrace.  I  have  come 
to  such  a  pass  in  my  life's  history  that,  one  way  or  an- 
other, I  can't  avoid  it.  I  thought  just  at  the  first  mo- 
ment that  I  could  let  things  slide  and  stay.  But  there's 
dishonor  in  that  course,  too.  Dishonor  for  myself, 
dishonor  for  my  name,  dishonor  for  others,  too,  whom 
it  is  my  business  —  yes,  my  business  —  to  keep  from 
dishonor.  That's  the  position — disgrace  if  I  stay,  dis- 
grace if  I  go.  It  seems  to  me  there's  no  rule  of  con- 
duct which  applies.     I  must  judge  for  myself." 

Stretton  spoke  with  some  anger  in  his  voice,  anger 
with  those  who  had  placed  him  in  so  cruel  a  position, 
anger,  perhaps,  in  some  measure,  with  himself.  For 
in  a  little  while  he  said: 

"  It  is  quite  true  that  I  am  myself  to  blame,  too.  I 
want  to  be  just.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  gone  into 
the  house  the  evening  I  was  in  London,  after  I  had 
come  back  from  the  North  Sea.  Yes,  I  should  have 
gone  in  then;  and  yet — I  don't  know.  I  had  thought 
my  course  all  out.     I  don't  know." 

He  had  thought  his  course  out,  it  is  true;  but  he 
had  thought  it  out  in  ignorance  of  his  wife's  character. 
That  was  the  trouble,  as  he  clearly  saw  now. 

"Anyhow,  I  must  go  to-night,"  he  said,  rising  from 
his  chair.  In  an  instant  he  had  become  the  practical 
man,  arranging  the  means  to  an  end  already  resolved 
upon. 

"I  can  borrow  money  of  you?" 

"Yes." 

274 


THE   TRUANTS 

"And  a  mule?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  me  choose  my  mule." 

They  walked  from  the  tent  to  where  the  mules  stood 
picketed.  Warrisden  pointed  to  one  in  the  middle  of 
the  line. 

"That  is  the  strongest." 

"I  don't  want  one  too  strong,  too  obviously  well- 
fed/'  said  Stretton;  and  he  selected  another.  "Can  I 
borrow  a  muleteer  for  an  hour  or  two  ?' 

"Of  course,"  said  Warrisden. 

Stretton  called  a  muleteer  towards  him  and  gave 
him  orders. 

"There  is  a  market  to-day,"  he  said.  " Go  to  it  and 
buy."  He  enumerated  the  articles  he  wanted,  ticking 
them  off  upon  his  fingers — a  few  pairs  of  scissors  and 
some  knives,  a  few  gaudy  silk  handkerchiefs,  one  or  two 
cheap  clocks,  some  pieces  of  linen,  needles  and  thread 
— in  fact,  a  small  peddler's  pack  of  wares.  In  addition, 
a  black  jellaba  and  cap,  such  as  the  Jews  must  wear  in 
Morocco,  and  a  native's  underclothes  and  slippers. 

"Bring  these  things  back  to  the  camp  at  once  and 
speak  to  no  one,"  said  Stretton. 

The  muleteer  loosed  a  mule  to  carry  the  packages, 
and  went  off  upon  his  errand.  Stretton  and  Warris- 
den went  back  to  the  tent.  Stretton  sat  down  again 
in  his  chair,  took  a  black  cigarette  from  a  bright-blue 
packet  which  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and  Hghted  it,  as 
though  all  the  arrangements  for  his  journey  were  now 

concluded. 

"  I  want  you  to  pack  the  mule  I  chose  with  the  things 
which  your  muleteer  brings  back.  Add  some  barley 
for  the  mule  and  some  food  for  me,  and  bring  it  with 
the  clothes  to  the  southwest  corner  of  the  barrack- 

275 


THE   TRUANTS 

wall  at  eight.  It  will  be  dark  then.  Don't  come  be- 
fore it  is  dark,  and  wait  for  me  rft  the  comer.  Will 
you?" 

"Yes,"  repHed  Warrisden.  "You  are  going  to 
tramp  to  the  coast  ?  Surely  you  can  come  as  one  of 
my  men  as  far  as  the  rail-head.  Then  I  will  go  on  and 
wait  for  you  at  Algiers." 

"No,"  said  Stretton;  "our  ways  lie  altogether  apart. 
It  would  be  too  dangerous  for  me  to  tramp  through 
Algeria.  I  should  certainly  be  stopped.  That's  my 
way." 

He  raised  his  arm  and  pointed  through  the  tent 
door. 

The  tent  door  faced  the  west,  and  in  front  there  rose 
a  range  of  mountains,  dark  and  lofty,  ridge  overtop- 
ping ridge,  and  wonderfully  distinct.  In  that  clear 
air  the  peaks  and  gaps,  and  jagged  aretes  were  all  sharp- 
ly defined.  The  sun  was  still  bright,  and  the  dark 
cliffs  had  a  purple  bloom  of  extraordinary  softness  and 
beauty,  like  the  bloom  upon  a  ripe  plum.  Here  and 
there  the  mountains  were  capped  with  snow,  and  the 
snow  glistened  like  silver. 

"Those  mountains  are  in  Morocco,"  said  Stretton. 
"That's  my  way — over  them.  My  only  way.  We 
are  on  the  very  edge  of  Morocco  here." 

"But,  once  over  the  border,"  Warrisden  objected, 
"are  you  safe  in  Morocco?" 

"Safe  from  recapture." 

"But  safe  in  no  other  sense?" 

Stretton  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  a  bad  road,  I  know — dangerous  and  difficult. 
The  ordinary  traveller  cannot  pass  along  it.  But  it 
has  been  traversed.  Prisoners  have  escaped  that  way 
to  Fez — Escoffier,  for  instance.     Deserters  have  reach- 

276 


THE   TRUANTS 

ed  their  homes  by  following  it — some  of  them,  at  all 
events.     One  must  take  one's  risks." 

It  was  the  old  lesson  learned  upon  the  ketch  Per- 
severance which  Stretton  now  repeated ;  and  not  vainly- 
learned.  Far  away  to  the  south,  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
light, there  shone  that  yellow  streak  of  sand  beyond 
which  its  value  had  been  surely  proved.  Warrisden's 
thoughts  were  carried  back  on  a  sudden  to  that  morn- 
ing of  storm  and  foam  and  roaring  waves  when  Stret- 
ton bad  stood  easily  upon  the  deck  of  the  fish-cutter, 
with  the  great  seas  swinging  up  behind  him,  and  had, 
for  the  first  time,  uttered  it  in  Warrisden's  hearing. 
Much  the  same  feeling  came  over  Warrisden  as  that 
which  had  then  affected  him — a  feeling  almost  of  in- 
feriority. Stretton  was  a  man  of  no  more  than  aver- 
age ability,  neither  a  deep  thinker,  nor  a  person  of  in- 
genuity and  resource;  but  the  mere  stubbornness  of  his 
character  gave  to  him  at  times  a  certain  grandeur. 
In  Warrisden's  eyes  he  had  that  grandeur  now.  He 
had  come  quickly  to  his  determination  to  desert,  but 
he  had  come  calmly  to  it.  There  had  been  no  excite- 
ment in  his  manner,  no  suggestion  of  hysteria.  He 
had  counted  up  the  cost,  he  had  read  his  letter,  he  had 
held  the  balance  between  his  sacrifice  and  Millie's 
necessity ;  and  he  had  decided.  He  had  decided,  know- 
ing not  merely  the  disgrace,  but  the  difficulties  of  his 
journey  and  the  danger  of  his  road  among  the  wild, 
lawless  tribes  in  that  unsettled  quarter  of  Morocco. 
Again  Warrisden  was  carried  away.  He  forgot  even 
Pamela  at  Roquebrune  waiting  for  the  telegram  he  was 
to  send  from  Oran  on  his  return.     He  cried: 

"I  will  send  back  my  outfit  and  come  with  you.  If 
we  travel  together  there  will  be  more  safety." 

Stretton  shook  his  head. 

277 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Less,"  said  he.  "You  cannot  speak  Mogrhebbin. 
I  have  a  few  sentences — not  many,  but  enough.  I 
know  something  of  these  tribes,  too.  For  I  once 
marched  to  the  Figuig  oasis.  Your  company  would 
be  no  protection;  rather  it  would  be  an  extra  danger." 

Warrisden  did  not  press  his  proposal.  Stretton  had 
so  clearly  made  up  his  mind. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "You  have  a  revolver,  I 
suppose.     Or  shall  I  lend  you  one?" 

And,  to  Warrisden's  astonishment,  Stretton  replied: 

"I  shall  carry  no  weapons." 

Warrisden  was  already  placing  his  arms  of  defence 
upon  the  table  so  that  Stretton  might  make  his  choice. 

"No  weapons!"  he  exclaimed. 

"No.  My  best  chance  to  get  through  to  Fez  is  to 
travel  as  a  Jew  peddler.  That  is  why  I  am  borrowing 
your  mule  and  have  sent  your  muleteer  to  the  market. 
A  Jew  can  go  in  Morocco  where  no  Moor  can,  for  he 
is  not  suspected;  he  is  merely  despised.  Besides,  he 
brings  things  for  sale  which  are  needed.  He  may  be 
robbed  and  beaten,  but  he  has  more  chance  of  reaching 
his  journey's  end  in  some  plight  or  other  than  any  one 
else." 

Thereafter  he  sat  for  a  while  silent,  gazing  towards 
the  mountains  in  the  west.  The  snow  glittering  upon 
the  peaks  brought  back  to  his  mind  the  flashing  crys- 
tals in  the  great  salt  lakes.  It  was  at  just  such  a  time, 
on  just  such  an  afternoon,  when  the  two  companies  of 
the  Legion  had  marched  out  from  the  trees  of  the  high 
plateaux  into  the  open  desert,  with  its  gray -green  car- 
pet of  halfa-grass.  Far  away  the  lake  had  flashed  like 
an  arc  of  silver  set  in  the  ground.  Stretton  could  not 
but  remember  that  expedition  and  compare  it  with  the 
one  upon  which  he  was  now  to  start ;  and  the  compari- 

278 


THE   TRUANTS 

son  was  full  of  bitterness.  Then  high  hopes  had 
reigned.  The  companies  were  marching  out  upon  the 
Legion's  special  work;  even  if  disaster  overtook  them, 
disaster  would  not  be  without  its  glory.  Stretton  heard 
the  clear,  inspiriting  music  of  the  bugles,  he  listened 
to  the  steady  tramp  of  feet.     Now  he  was  deserting. 

"I  shall  miss  the  Legion,"  he  said,  regretfully.  "I 
had  no  idea  how  much  I  should  miss  it  until  this  mo- 
ment." 

Its  proud  past  history  had  grown  dear  to  him.  The 
recklessness  of  its  soldiers,  the  endless,  perplexing 
variety  of  their  characters,  the  secrets  of  their  lives,  of 
which  every  now  and  then,  in  a  rare  moment  of  care- 
lessness, a  glimpse  was  revealed,  as  though  a  curtain 
were  raised  and  lowered — all  these  particular  qualities 
of  the  force  had  given  to  it  a  grip  upon  his  affections  of 
which  he  felt  the  full  strength  now. 

"Any  other  life,"  he  said,  "cannot  but  be  a  little 
dull,  a  little  uninteresting  afterwards.  I  shall  miss  the 
Legion  very  much." 

Suddenly  he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  took 
out  of  it  that  letter  from  the  French  War  Office  which 
his  colonel  had  handed  to  him.  "  Look!"  and  he  handed 
it  over  to  Warrisden.  "That  is  what  I  joined  the  Le- 
gion to  win — a  commission;  and  I  have  just  not  won  it. 
In  a  month  or  two,  perhaps  in  a  week,  perhaps  even  to- 
morrow, it  might  have  been  mine.  Very  soon  I  should 
have  been  back  at  home,  the  life  I  have  dreamed  of  and 
worked  for  ever  since  I  left  London  might  have  been 
mine  to  live.  It  was  to  have  been  a  good  life  of  great 
happiness"  —  he  had  forgotten,  it  seemed,  that  he 
would  regret  the  Legion — "a  life  without  a  flaw.  Now 
that  life's  impossible,  and  I  am  a  deserter.  It's  hard 
lines,  isn't  it?" 

279 


THE   TRUANTS 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  looked  for  a  moment  at 
Warrisden  in  silence. 

"I  am  feeling  sorry  that  I  ever  came,"  said  War- 
risden. 

"Oh  no,"  Stretton  answered,  with  a  smile.  "It 
would  have  been  still  worse  if  I  had  stayed  here,  igno- 
rant of  the  news  you  have  brought  me,  and  had  come 
home  in  my  own  time.  Things  would  have  been  much 
worse  —  beyond  all  remedy.  Do  you  know  a  man 
named  Gallon — Lionel  Gallon?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 
And  before  Warrisden  could  answer  the  blood  rushed 
into  his  face  and  he  exclaimed:  "Never  mind;  don't 
answer!  Be  at  the  corner  of  the  barracks  with  the 
mule  at  eight. "  And  he  went  from  the  tent,  cautiously 
made  his  way  out  of  the  garden,  and  returned  to  his 
quarters. 

A  few  minutes  before  eight  Warrisden  drove  the 
mule,  packed  with  Stretton's  purchases,  to  the  south- 
western corner  of  the  barracks.  The  night  was  dark, 
no  one  was  abroad,  the  place  without  habitations.  He 
remained  under  the  shadow  of  the  high  wall,  watching 
this  way  and  that  for  Stretton's  approach ;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  he  was  almost  startled  out  of  his  wits  by  a 
heavy  body  falling  from  the  top  of  the  wall  upon  the 
ground  at  his  side.  Warrisden,  indeed,  was  so  taken 
by  surprise  that  he  uttered  a  low  cry. 

"Hush!"  said  a  voice  close  to  the  ground.  "It's 
only  me." 

And  Stretton  rose  to  his  feet.  He  had  dropped 
from  the  summit  of  the  wall. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  whispered  Warrisden. 

"No.     Have  you  the  clothes?     Thanks!" 

Stretton  stripped  off  his  uniform,  and  put  on  the 
Jewish  dress.     He  had  shaved  off  his  mustache  and 

280 


THE   TRUANTS 

blackened  his  hair.     As  he  dressed  he  gave  two  or 
three  small  packages  to  Warrisden. 

"Place  them  in  the  pack;  hide  them,  if  possible. 
That  package  contains  my  medals.  I  shall  need 
them.  The  other's  lamp  -  black.  I  shall  want  that 
for  my  hair.  Glossy  raven  locks,"  he  said,  with  a 
low  laugh,  "are  not  so  easily  procured  in  Ain-Sefra 
as  in  Bond  Street.  I  have  been  thinking.  You  can 
help  me  if  you  will;  you  can  shorten  the  time  of  my 
journey." 

"How?"  asked  Warrisden. 

"Go  back  to  Oran  as  quickly  as  possible.  Take  the 
first  boat  to  Tangier.  Hire  an  outfit  there,  mules  and 
horses — but  good  ones,  mind! — and  travel  up  at  once 
to  Fez.  If  you  are  quick  you  can  do  it  within  a  fort- 
night. I  shall  take  a  fortnight  at  the  least  to  reach 
Fez.  I  may  be  three  weeks.  But  if  I  find  you  there, 
ready  to  start  the  moment  I  come  to  the  town,  we  shall 
save  much  time." 

"Very  well;  I  will  be  there." 

"If  I  get  through  sooner  than  I  expect,  I  shall  go 
straight  on  to  Tangier,  and  we  will  meet  on  the  road. 
Now  let  me  climb  onto  your  shoulders."  Stretton 
made  a  bundle  of  his  uniform,  climbed  onto  Warris- 
den's  shoulders,  and  threw  it  over  the  wall  into  the 
barrack-yard. 

"But  that  will  betray  you!"  cried  Warrisden,  in  a 
whisper.  "They  will  find  your  clothes  in  the  morning 
— clothes  with  a  sergeant's  stripes." 

"  I  cannot  help  that,"  repHed  Stretton,  as  he  jumped 
to  the  ground.  "  I  do  not  intend  to  be  shot  as  a  thief, 
for  that  is  what  may  happen  when  a  man  deserts  and 
takes  his  uniform  with  him.  Don't  fail  me  in  Fez. 
Good-bye." 

281 


THE   TRUANTS 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and,  as  Warrisden  grasped  it, 
he  said: 

"I  have  not  said  much  to  you  in  the  way  of  thanks; 
but  I  am  very  grateful,  however  much  I  may  have 
seemed  to  have  been  made  unhappy  by  your  coming. 
Since  things  are  as  they  are,  I  am  glad  you  came.  I 
thank  you,  too,  for  that  other  visit  to  the  North  Sea. 
I  will  give  you  better  thanks  when  we  meet  in  Fez." 

He  cast  a  glance  back  to  the  wall  of  the  barracks, 
and,  in  a  voice  which  trembled,  so  deeply  was  he  moved, 
he  whispered  to  himself,  rather  than  to  Warrisden: 

"Oh,  but  I  am  glad  Tavernay  is  dead!" 

All  else  that  he  had  said  since  he  dropped  from  the 
wall  had  been  said  hurriedly  and  without  emotion. 
These  last  words  were  whispered  from  a  heart  over- 
charged with  sorrow.  They  were  his  farewell  to  the 
Legion.  He  turned  away,  and,  driving  the  mule  before 
him,  vanished  into  the  darkness. 


XXVI 
BAD  NEWS  FOR  PAMELA 

WARRISDEN  struck  his  camp  early  the  next 
morning,  and  set  out  for  the  rail-head.  Thence 
he  travelled  to  Oran.  At  Oran  he  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  a  steamer  of  the  Lambert  line  in  the 
harbor  which  was  preparing  to  sail  that  afternoon  for 
Tangier.  Warrisden  had  three  hours  to  pass  in  Oran. 
He  went  at  once  to  the  post-office  and  dispatched  his 
telegram  to  Pamela  Mardale  at  the  Villa  Pontignard. 
The  telegram  informed  her  that  Tony  Stretton  was  re- 
turning, though  his  journey  might  take  longer  than 
she  would  naturally  expect;  and,  secondly,  that  he  him- 
self was  sailing  that  day  for  Tangier,  whither  any  mes- 
sage should  be  sent  at  once  to  await  his  arrival  at  the 
English  post  -  office.  The  telegram  was  couched  in 
vague  phrases.  Tony  Stretton,  for  instance,  was  called 
"The  Truant."  Pamela  became  more  and  more  dis- 
quieted by  the  vagueness  of  its  wording.  She  pon- 
dered, and  in  vain,  why  in  the  world  Warrisden  must 
be  sailing  to  Tangier.  It  seemed  certain  that  there 
were  difficulties  in  the  way  of  Tony's  home-coming 
which  she  had  not  foreseen,  and  at  the  nature  of  which 
she  could  not  conjecture.  She  sent  off  a  reply  to 
Tangier  : 

"Bring  truant  to  Roquebrune  as  soon  as  possible." 

For,  on  thinking  over  the  new  aspect  which  her 

problem  presented,  now  that  Lionel  Gallon  had  come 

283 


THE   TRUANTS 

to  the  Riviera,  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
this  was  the  safest  plan.  If  Millie  Stretton  did  not 
come  to  the  south  of  France,  no  harm  would  have 
been  done;  whereas,  if  she  did,  and  Tony  went  straight 
home  to  England,  the  last  chance  of  saving  her  would 
be  lost. 

This  message,  however,  did  little  to  reassure  Pamela. 
For*  the  more  she  thought  of  Warrisden's  telegram, 
the  more  she  was  troubled.  Tony  was  returning. 
Yes,  that  was  something — that  was  a  great  thing.  But 
he  was  going  to  take  a  long  time  in  returning,  and,  to 
Pamela's  apprehension,  there  was  no  long  time  to 
spare.  And  the  day  after  she  had  received  the  tele- 
gram she  came  upon  still  stronger  reasons  for  disquie- 
tude. 

She  went  down  to  Monte  Carlo  in  the  morning,  and 
again  saw  Lionel  Gallon  upon  the  terrace,  and  again 
noticed  that  he  was  alone.  Yet  on  the  whole  she  was 
not  surprised.  Millie  Stretton's  name  figured  as  yet 
in  no  visitors'  list,  and  Pamela  was  quite  sure  that  if 
Millie  Stretton  had  come  south  the  name  would  have 
been  inserted.  It  was  impossible  that  Millie  Stretton 
could  come  to  Monte  Carlo,  or  to,  indeed,  any  hotel 
upon  the  Riviera,  under  a  false  name.  She  could  not 
but  meet  acquaintances  and  friends  at  every  step 
during  this  season  of  the  year.  To  assume  a  name 
which  was  not  hers  would  be  an  act  of  stupidity  too 
gross.  None  the  less  Pamela  was  relieved.  She 
avoided  Gallon's  notice,  and,  acting  upon  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, went  out  from  the  garden,  hired  a  carriage,  and 
ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  along  the  lower  Cor- 
niche  road  in  the  direction  of  Beaulieu. 

Pamela  was  growing  harassed  and  anxious.  The 
days  were  passing  and  no  message  had  yet  come  from 

284 


THE   TRUANTS 

Alan  Warrisden.  She  suspected  the  presence  of  Lionel 
Gallon  on  the  Riviera  more  and  more.  More  and  more 
she  dreaded  the  arrival  of  MilHe  Stretton.  There  was 
nothing  now  which  she  could  do.  She  had  that  hard 
lot  which  falls  to  women,  the  lot  of  waiting.  But  she 
could  not  wait  with  folded  hands.  She  must  be  doing 
something;  even  though  that  something  were  alto- 
gether trivial  and  useless,  it  still  helped  her  through 
the  hours.  In  this  spirit  she  drove  out  from  Monte 
Carlo  at  twelve  o'clock,  without  a  thought  that  her 
drive  was  to  assist  her  towards  the  end  on  which  she 
had  set  her  heart. 

She  drove  past  the  back  of  the  big  hotel  at  Eze. 
Just  beyond,  a  deep  gorge  runs  from  the  hills  straight 
down  to  the  sea.  The  road  curves  round  the  head  of 
the  gorge  and  bends  again  to  the  shore.  Pamela  drove 
round  the  gorge,  and,  coming  again  to  the  shore,  went 
forward  by  the  side  of  the  sea.  After  a  few  minutes 
she  bade  the  driver  stop.  In  front  of  her  the  road  rose 
a  little,  and  then  on  the  other  side  of  the  crest  dipped 
down  a  steep  hill.  On  her  left  a  pair  of  iron  gates 
stood  open.  From  those  gates  a  carriage-drive  ran  in 
two  zigzags  between  borders  of  flowers  down  to  an  open 
gravel  space  in  front  of  a  long,  one-storied  building. 
The  building  faced  upon  the  road,  but  at  a  lower  level, 
so  that  even  the  flat  roof  was  below  Pamela.  The 
building  was  prettily  built,  and  roses  and  magnolias 
climbed  against  the  walls,  making  it  gay.  The  door 
in  the  middle  stood  open,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life 
about  the  house.  Pamela  sat  gazing  down  into  the 
garden,  with  its  bushes  and  brightly  colored  flowers. 

Pamela  spoke  to  the  driver: 

"What  place  is  this?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  only  built  last  year,"  the  man  replied,  and 

285 


THE   TRUANTS 

he  told  her  enough  for  her  to  know  that  this  was  the 
Reserve  at  which  Lionel  Gallon  was  staying. 

"Few  people  come  here?"  said  Pamela. 

"It  is  not  known  yet,"  replied  the  driver.  "It  is 
such  a  little  while  since  it  has  been  opened." 

The  sun  was  bright.  Beyond  the  Reserve  the  Medi- 
terranean rippled  and  sparkled — here  the  deepest  blue, 
there  breaking  into  points  of  golden  light.  The  Re- 
serve itself  had  the  look  of  a  country-house  in  a  rich 
garden  of  flowers  tended  with  love.  In  the  noonday 
the  spot  was  very  quiet  and  still.  Yet  to  Pamela  it 
had  the  most  sinister  aspect.  It  stood  in  a  solitary 
position,  just  beneath  the  road.  In  its  very  quietude 
there  was  to  her  harassed  thoughts  something  clan- 
destine. 

She  knew  that  Gallon  was  in  Monte  Garlo.  She  told 
her  driver  to  drive  down  to  the  door,  and  at  the  door 
she  stepped  down  and  walked  into  the^  building.  A 
large  dining-room  opened  out  before  her  in  which  two 
waiters  lounged.  There  were  no  visitors.  The  wait- 
ers came  forward.  '  Would  madame  take  luncheon 
in  the  room,  or  on  the  terrace  at  the  back  over  the 
sea?" 

"On  the  terrace,"  Pamela  replied. 

She  lunched  quite  alone  on  a  broad,  flagged  terrace, 
with  the  sea  gently  breaking  at  its  foot.  The  greater 
portion  of  the  building  was  occupied  by  the  restau- 
rant, but  at  one  end  Pamela  noticed  a  couple  of  French 
windows.  She  remarked  to  the  waiter  who  served  her 
upon  the  absence  of  any  visitors  but  herself. 

"It  is  only  this  season,  madame,  that  the  restaurant 
is  open,"  he  replied. 

"Can  people  stay  here?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     There  are  two  suites  of  rooms.     One  is  oc- 

286 


THE    TRUANTS 

cupied;  but  the  other  is  vacant,  if  madame  would  care 
to  see  it." 

Pamela  rose  and  followed  him.  He  opened  one  of 
the  French  windows.  A  dining-room,  furnished  with 
elegance  and  lightly  decorated,  a  sitting-room,  and  a 
bedroom  comprised  the  suite.  Pamela  came  back  to 
the  terrace.  She  was  disquieted.  It  was  impossible, 
of  course,  that  Millie  Stretton  should  stay  at  the  Re- 
serve; but  the  whole  look  of  the  place  troubled  her. 

She  mounted  into  her  carriage  and  drove  back.  In 
front  of  her  the  great  hotel  of  Eze  stood  high  upon  a 
promontory  above  the  railway.  A  thought  came  to 
Pamela.  She  drove  back  round  the  head  of  the  gorge, 
and  when  she  came  to  the  hotel  she  bade  the  coach- 
man drive  in.  In  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  hotel 
she  took  tea.  She  could  not  see  the  restaurant  itself, 
but  she  could  see  the  road  rising  to  the  little  hill-crest 
beside  it.  It  was  very  near,  she  thought.  She  went 
into  the  hotel,  and  asked  boldly  at  the  office: 

"When  do  you  expect  Lady  Stretton?" 

"Lady  Stretton?"  The  clerk  in  the  office  looked 
up  his  books.  "In  three  weeks,  madame,"  he  said. 
"She  has  engaged  her  rooms  from  the  31st." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pamela. 

She  mounted  into  her  carriage  and  drove  back  to 
Monte  Carlo.  So  Millie  Stretton  was  coming  to  the 
Riviera,  after  all.  She  had  refused  to  come  with  Pam- 
ela, yet  she  was  coming  by  herself.  She  had  declared 
she  would  not  leave  England  this  spring.  But  she 
had  made  that  declaration  before  Lionel  Gallon  had 
returned  from  Chile.  Now  Callon  was  here,  and  she 
was  following.  Pamela  could  not  doubt  that  her  com- 
ing was  part  of  a  concerted  plan.  The  very  choice  of 
the  hotel  helped  to  convince  her.     It  was  so  near  to 

287 


THE   TRUANTS 

that  at  which  Gallon  was  staying.  Twenty  minutes 
walk  at  the  most  would  separate  them.  Moreover, 
why  should  Gallon  choose  that  lonely  restaurant  with- 
out some  particular,  nay,  some  secret  object?  No 
one,  it  seemed,  visited  it  in  the  day ;  no  one  but  he  slept 
there  at  night.  Gallon  was  not  the  man  to  fall  in  love 
with  solitude.  And  if  he  had  wished  for  solitude  he 
would  not  have  come  to  the  Riviera  at  all.  Besides, 
he  spent  his  days  in  Monte  Garlo,  as  Pamela  well  knew. 
No,  it  was  not  loneliness  at  which  he  aimed,  but  secrecy. 
That  was  it — secrecy.  Pamela's  heart  sank  within 
her.  She  had  a  momentary  thought  that  she  would 
disclose  her  presence  to  Lionel  Gallon,  and  dismissed 
it.  The  disclosure  would  alter  Gallon's  plan,  that  was 
all;  it  would  not  hinder  the  fulfilment.  It  would  drive 
Millie  and  him  from  the  Riviera — it  would  not  prevent 
them  from  meeting  somewhere  else.  It  would  be  bet- 
ter, indeed,  that,  if  meet  they  must,  they  should 
meet  under  her  eyes.  For  some  accident  might  hap- 
pen, some  unforeseen  opportunity  occur  of  which  she 
could  take  advantage  to  separate  them.  It  was  not 
known  to  Gallon  that  she  was  on  the  spot.  After  all, 
that  was  an  advantage.  She  must  meet  secrecy  with 
secrecy.  She  urged  her  coachman  to  quicken  his  pace. 
She  drove  straight  to  the  post-ofhce  at  Monte  Garlo. 
Thence  she  despatched  a  second  telegram  to  Alan 
Warrisden  at  Tangier. 

"  Do  not  fail  to  arrive  by  the  31st,"  she  telegraphed; 
and  upon  that  took  the  train  back  to  Roquebrune. 
She  could  do  no  more  now;  but  the  knowledge  that 
she  could  do  no  more  only  aggravated  her  fears. 
Questions  which  could  not  be  answered  thronged  upon 
her  mind.  "Would  the  telegram  reach  Tangier  in 
time?     What  was  Alan  Warrisden  doing  at  Tangier 

288 


THE  TRUANTS 

at  all  ?     What  hindered  them   coming   straight    from 
Algeria   to   France?"     Well,    there  were  three  weeks 
still.     She  sent  up  her  prayer  that  those  three  weeks 
might  bring  Tony  Stretton  back,  that  Millie  might  be 
saved  for  him.     She  walked  up  the  steps  from  Roque- 
brune  station  very  slowly.     She  did  not  look  up  as 
she  climbed.     Had  she  done  so  she  might,  perhaps, 
have  seen  a  head  above  the  parapet  in  the  little  square 
where  the  school-house  stood ;  and  she  would  certainly 
have  seen  that  head  suddenly  withdrawn  as  her  head 
was  raised.     M.  Giraud  was  watching  her  furtively, 
as  he  had  done  many  a  time  since  she  had  come  to 
Roquebrune,  taking  care  that  she  should  not  see  him. 
He  watched  her  now,  noticing  that  she  walked  with 
the  same  lagging,  weary  step  as  when  he  had  last  seen 
her  on  that  path  so  many  years  ago.     But  as  he  watch- 
ed she  stopped,  and,  turning  about,  looked  southward 
across  the  sea,  and  stood  there  for  an  appreciable  time. 
When  she  turned  again  and  once  more  mounted  the 
steps,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  weariness  had  gone. 
She  walked  buoyantly,  Hke  one  full  of  faith,  full  of 
hope ;  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face.     It  seemed 
to  him  that  it  had  become  transfigured,  and  that  the 
eyes  were  looking  at  some  vision  which  was  visible  to 
her  eyes  alone.     Pamela  had  come  back,  indeed,  at  the 
end  of  all  her  perplexities  and  conjectures,  to  the  be- 
lief born  of  her  new  love,  that  somehow  the  world 
would  right  itself,  that  somehow  in  a  short  while  she 
would  hear  whispered  upon  the  wind,  answered  by  the 
ripples  of  the  sea,  and  confirmed  by  the  one  voice  she 
longed  to  hear,  the  sentinel's  cry:  "All's  well." 

The  messages  which  Pamela  had  sent  to  Warrisden 
reached  him  at  Tangier.     He  found  them  both  waiting 
for  him  the  day  after  they  had  been  sent.     He  had 
19  289 


THE   TRUANTS 

twenty  days  in  front  of  him.  If  Tony  kept  to  his  time, 
twenty  days  would  serve.  He  hired  a  camp  outfit,  and 
the  best  mules  to  be  obtained  in  Tangier  on  that  day. 
The  same  evening  he  bought  a  couple  of  barbs  well 
recommended  to  him  for  speed  and  endurance. 

"They  will  amble  at  six  miles  an  hour  for  ten  hours  a 
day,"  said  one  whose  advice  he  sought.  Warrisden 
discounted  the  statement,  but  bought  the  barbs. 
Early  the  next  morning  he  set  out  for  Fez. 


XXVII 
'*BALAKrr 

THERE  are  two  cities  of  Fez.  One  is  the  city  of 
the  narrow,  crowded  streets,  where  the  cry,  "Ba- 
lak!  Balak!"  resounds  all  day.  Streets,  one  terms 
them,  since  they  are  the  main  thoroughfares  through 
which  all  the  merchandise  of  Morocco  passes  out  to  the 
four  quarters  of  the  compass;  but  they  are  no  wider 
than  the  alleyways  of  an  English  village,  and  in  many 
places  a  man  may  stand  in  the  centre  and  touch  the 
wall  on  either  side.  These  streets  are  paved  with  big 
cobble-stones,  but  the  stones  are  broken  and  displaced 
by  the  tramp  of  centuries.  If  mended  at  all,  they  are 
mended  with  a  millstone  or  any  chance  slab  of  rock; 
but  for  the  most  part  they  are  left  unmended  alto- 
gether. For  that  is  the  fashion  in  Morocco.  There 
they  build  and  make,  and  they  do  both  things  beauti- 
fully and  well.  But  they  seldom  finish;  in  a  house, 
dainty  with  fountains  and  arabesques  and  colored  tiles, 
you  will  still  find  a  corner  uncompleted,  a  pillar  which 
lacks  the  deHcate  fluting  of  the  other  pillars,  an  em- 
brasure for  a  clock  half  ornamented  with  gold  filigree, 
and  half  left  plain.  And  if  they  seldom  finish,  they 
never  by  any  chance  repair.  The  mansion  is  built 
and  decorated  within ;  artists  fit  the  tiles  together  in  a 
mosaic  of  cool  colors,  and  carve  and  gild  and  paint  the 

1"  Take  care!" 
291 


THE   TRUANTS 

little  pieces  of  cedar-wood,  and  glue  them  into  the 
light  and  pointed  arches;  the  rich  curtains  are  hung; 
and  the  master  enters  into  his  possession.  There  fol- 
lows the  procession  of  the  generations.  The  tiles  crack , 
the  woodwork  of  the  arches  splits  and  falls,  and  the 
walls  break  and  crumble.  The  householder  sits  in- 
different, and  the  whole  house  corrodes.  So,  in  the 
narrow  streets,  holes  gape,  and  the  water  wears  a 
channel  where  it  wills,  and  the  mud  lies  thick  and 
slippery  on  the  rounded  stones;  the  streets  run  steeply 
up  and  down  the  hills,  wind  abruptly  round  corners, 
dive  into  tunnels.  Yet  men  gallop  about  them  on 
their  sure-footed  horses,  stumbling,  slipping,  but  sel- 
dom falling.  "Balak!"  they  cry— "  Balak!"— and  the 
man  on  foot  is  flung  against  the  wall  or  jostled  out  of 
the  way.     No  one  protests  or  resents. 

A  file  of  donkeys,  laden  with  wood  or  with  grain,  so 
fixed  upon  their  backs  that  the  load  grazes  each  street 
wall,  blocks  the  way.  "Balak!"  shouts  the  donkey- 
driver.  And  perhaps  some  nobleman  of  Fez,  soft  and 
fat  and  indolent,  in  his  blue  cloak,  who  comes  pacing 
on  a  mule  no  less  fat,  preceded  by  his  servants,  must 
turn  or  huddle  himself  into  an  embrasure.  There  are 
no  social  distinctions  in  the  alleyways  of  Fez.  It  may 
be  that  one  of  those  donkeys  will  fall  then  and  there 
beneath  his  load,  and  refuse  to  rise.  His  load  will  be 
taken  from  his  back,  and  if  he  still  refuse  he  will  be 
left  just  where  he  fell,  to  die.  His  owner  walks  on. 
It  is  no  one's  business  to  remove  the  animal.  There 
he  lies  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  to  him  "Ba- 
lak!" will  be  called  in  vain. 

A  mounted  troop  of  wild  Berbers  from  the  hills,  with 
their  long,  brass-bound  guns  slung  across  their  backs, 
and  gaudy  handkerchiefs  about  their  heads,  will  ride 

292 


THE   TRUANTS 

through  the  bazaars,  ragged  of  dress  and  no  less  ragged 
in  the  harness  of  their  horses.  "Balak!"  Very  swiftly 
way  is  made  for  them.  "  Balak,"  indeed,  is  the  word 
most  often  heard  in  the  streets  of  Fez. 

Those  streets  wind  at  times  between  the  walls  of 
gardens,  and  if  the  walls  are  broken,  as  surely  at  some 
point  they  will  be,  a  plot  of  grass,  a  grove  of  orange- 
trees  hung  with  ruddy  fruit,  and  a  clump  of  asphodel 
will  shine  upon  the  eyes  in  that  brown  and  windowless 
city  like  a  rare  jewel.  At  times,  too,  they  pass  be- 
neath some  spacious  arch  into  a  place  of  width,  or 
cross  a  bridge  where  one  of  the  many  streams  of  the 
river  Fez  boils  for  a  moment  into  the  open,  and  then 
swirls  away  again  beneath  the  houses.  But,  chiefly, 
they  run  deep  beneath  the  towering  walls  of  houses, 
and  little  of  the  sunlight  visits  them ;  so  that  you  may 
know  a  man  of  Fez,  even  though  he  be  absent  from  his 
town,  by  the  pallor  of  his  face.  A  householder,  more- 
over, may  build  over  the  street,  if  he  can  come  to  an 
agreement  with  his  neighbor  on  the  opposite  side,  and 
then  the  alleys  suddenly  become  tunnels,  and  turn 
upon  themselves  in  the  dark.  Or  the  walls  so  lean 
together  at  the  top  that  barely  a  finger's  breadth  of 
sky  is  visible  as  from  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

Into  this  city  of  dark  streets  Warrisden  came  upon 
an  evening  of  gloom.  The  night  before  he  had  camped 
on  the  slope  of  a  hill  by  the  village  of  Segota.  Never 
had  he  seen  a  spot  more  beautiful.  He  had  looked 
across  the  deep  valley  at  his  feet  to  the  great  buttress 
of  Jebel  Zarhon,  on  a  dark  shoulder  of  which  mountain 
one  small,  round,  white  town  was  perched.  A  long, 
high  range  of  gray  hills — the  last  barrier  between  him 
and  Fez — cleft  at  one  point  by  the  road,  rose  on  the  far 
side  of  the  valley;  and  those  hills  and  the  fields  be- 

293 


THE   TRUANTS 

neath,  and  the  solitary  crumbling  castle  which  stood 
in  the  bottom  among  the  fields,  were  all  magnified  and 
made  beautiful  by  the  mists  of  evening.  The  stars 
had  come  out  overhead,  behind  him  the  lights  shone  in 
his  tent,  and  a  cheerful  fire  crackled  in  the  open  near 
the  door.  He  had  come  up  quickly  from  Tangier,  and 
without  hindrance,  in  spite  of  warnings  that  the  road 
was  not  safe.  The  next  morning  he  would  be  in  Fez. 
It  had  seemed  to  him,  then,  that  fortune  was  on  his 
side.  He  drew  an  augury  of  success  from  the  clean 
briskness  of  the  air.  And  that  confidence  had  re- 
mained with  him  in  the  morning.  He  had  crossed  the 
valley  early,  and,  riding  over  the  long  pass  on  the  other 
side,  had  seen  at  last  the  snow-crowned  spur  of  the 
Atlas  on  the  farther  side  of  the  plain  of  Fez.  He  had 
descended  into  the  plain,  which  perpetually  rose  and 
fell  like  the  billows  of  an  ocean;  and  in  the  afternoon, 
from  the  summit  of  one  of  these  billows,  he  had  sud- 
denly seen,  not  an  hour's  journey  off,  the  great  city  of 
Fez,  with  its  crenellated  walls  and  high  minarets,  a 
mass  of  gray  and  brown,  with  here  and  there  a  splash 
of  white,  and  here  and  there  a  single  palm-tree,  strag- 
gling formlessly  across  the  green  plain.  The  sky  had 
clouded  over;  the  track  was  now  thronged  with  cara- 
vans of  camels  and  mules  and  donkeys,  and  wayfarers 
on  foot  going  to  and  coming  from  the  town ;  and  before 
the  Bab  Sagma,  the  great  gate  looking  towards  Mikkes, 
was  reached,  the  rain  was  falling. 

Warrisden  had  sent  on  the  soldier  who  had  ridden 
with  him  from  Tangier  to  deliver  a  note  to  the  consul, 
and  he  waited  with  his  animals  and  his  men  for  the 
soldier's  return.  The  man  came  towards  dusk  with 
word  that  a  house  had  been  secured  in  the  town,  and 
Warrisden  passed  through  the  gate  and  down  between 

294 


THE   TRUANTS 

the  high  battlements  of  the  Bugilud  into  the  old  town. 
And  as  he  passed  through  the  covered  bazaars  and 
the  narrow  streets,  in  the  gloom  of  the  evening,  while 
the  rain  fell  drearily  from  a  sullen  sky,  his  confidence 
of  the  morning  departed  from  him,  and  a  great  depres- 
sion chilled  him  to  the  heart.  The  high,  cracked, 
bulging  walls  of  the  houses,  towering  up  without  a  win- 
dow, the  shrouded  figures  of  the  passers-by,  the  falling 
light,  the  neglect  as  of  a  city  of  immemorial  age  crum- 
bling in  decay,  made  of  Fez,  to  him  that  night,  a  place 
of  gloom  and  forbidding  mystery.  He  was  in  a  mood 
to  doubt  whether  ever  he  w'ould  look  on  Tony  Stret- 
ton's  face  again. 

In  the  narrowest  of  the  alleys,  where  each  of  his 
stirrups  touched  a  wall,  his  guide  stopped.  It  was  al- 
most pitch-dark  here.  By  throwing  back  his  head, 
Warrisden  could  just  see,  far  above  him,  a  little  slit  of 
light.  His  guide  groped  his  way  down  a  passage  on 
the  right,  and  at  the  end  opened  with  a  key  a  ponder- 
ous black  door.  Warrisden  stepped  over  the  sill  and 
found  himself  in  a  tiled  court  of  which  the  roof  was 
open  to  the  sky.  On  the  first  floor  there  was  a  gallery, 
and  on  each  of  the  four  sides  a  long,  narrow  room,  lofty, 
and  closed  with  great  folding-doors,  opened  onto  the 
gallery.  In  one  of  these  rooms  Warrisden  had  his  bed 
set  up.  He  sat  there  trying  to  read  by  the  light  of  a 
single  candle,  and  listening  to  the  drip  of  the  rain. 

When  he  left  Tangier  he  had  twenty-one  days  be- 
fore he  need  be  at  Roquebrune  in  answer  to  Pamela's 
summons.  He  had  looked  up  the  steamers  before  he 
started.  Four  of  those  days  would  be  needed  to  carry 
them  from  Tangier  to  Roquebrune.  He  had  reached 
Fez  in  five,  and  he  thus  had  twelve  days  left.  In  other 
words,  if  Stretton  came  to  Fez  within  a  week,  there 

295 


THE   TRUANTS 

should  still  be  time,  provided,  of  course,  the  road  to 
the  coast  was  not  for  the  moment  cut  by  rebellious 
tribes.  That  was  the  danger,  as  Warrisden's  journey- 
had  told  him.  He  discounted  the  timorous  statements 
of  his  dragoman,  Ibrahim,  but  one  who  knew  had 
warned  him  at  El  Ksar.     There  was  a  risk. 

The  night  was  cold.  Warrisden  wrapped  himself  in 
a  Moorish  jellaba  of  fine  white  wool,  but  he  could  not 
put  on  with  it  the  Moorish  patience  and  indifference. 
The  rain  dripped  upon  the  tiles  of  the  court.  Where 
was  Stretton,  he  wondered. 

He  went  to  bed,  and  waked  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  He  had  left  the  great  doors  of  his  bedroom 
open ;  the  rain  had  stopped ;  and  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night  he  heard  one  loud  voice,  of  an  exquisite  beauty, 
vibrating  over  the  roofs  of  the  sleeping  city,  as  though 
it  spoke  from  heaven  itself.  Warrisden  lay  listening 
to  it,  and  interpreting  the  words  from  the  modulations 
of  the  voice  which  uttered  them.  Now  it  rang  out  im- 
perious as  a  summons,  dropping  down  through  the  open 
roofs  to  wake  the  sleepers  in  their  beds.  Now  it  rose, 
lyrical  and  glorious,  in  a  high  chant  of  praise.  Now  it 
became  wistful,  and  trembled  away  pleading,  yet  with 
a  passion  of  longing  in  the  plea.  Warrisden  could 
look  upward  from  his  bed  through  the  open  roof. 
The  sky  was  clear  again.  Overhead  were  the  bright 
stars,  and  this  solitary  voice,  most  musical  and  strange, 
ringing  out  through  the  silence. 

It  was  the  mueddhin  on  the  tower  of  the  Karueein 
Mosque.  For  five  hours  before  the  dawn  the  praises 
of  Allah  are  sung  from  the  summit  of  the  mosque's 
minaret.  There  are  ten  mueddhins  to  whom  the  ser- 
vice is  intrusted,  and  each  sends  out  his  chant  above 
the  sleeping  city  for  half  an  hour.     But  in  the  voice 

296 


THE   TRUANTS 

of  this  one  of  the  ten,  whom  Warrisden  heard  on  the 
first  night  when  he  slept  in  Fez,  there  was  a  particular 
quality.  He  listened  for  it  during  the  nights  which 
followed,  expected  it,  and  welcomed  its  first  note  as 
one  welcomes  the  coming  of  a  friend.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  all  the  East  was  in  that  cry. 

It  brought  back  to  him  sunsets  when  his  camp  was 
pitched  by  some  little  village  of  tents  or  thatched 
mud-houses  surrounded  by  hedges  of  aloes  and  prickly- 
pears —  at  Karia  Ben  Ouder,  at  Djouma  —  villages 
where  there  was  no  mosque  at  all,  but  whence  none  the 
less  the  voice  of  a  priest  dispersed  its  plaintive  cry 
across  the  empty  country  of  marigolds  and  asphodels, 
startling  the  white  cow-birds  and  the  storks. 

Warrisden  fell  to  thinking  of  Tony  Stretton.  He 
struck  a  match  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
close  upon  the  hour  of  dawn.  Perhaps,  just  at  this 
moment,  by  some  village  in  that  wild,  dark  mountain 
country  to  the  southeast,  Stretton  stirred  in  his  sleep, 
and  waked  to  hear  some  such  summons  chanted  about 
the  village.  Perhaps  he  was  even  now  loading  his 
mule,  and  setting  forth  by  the  glimmer  of  the  starlight 
upon  his  dangerous  road.  Warrisden  fell  asleep  again 
with  that  picture  in  his  mind,  and  woke  to  find  the 
sunlight  pouring  through  the  square  opening  of  the 
roof.  He  drank  his  coffee,  and,  mounting  a  little  wind- 
ing stairway  of  broken  steps,  came  out  into  that  other 
city  of  Fez,  the  city  of  the  roof-tops. 

Fez  is  built  upon  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  upon  some 
of  the  flat  roofs  Warrisden  looked  down  and  through 
the  dark,  square  holes  of  the  openings;  to  the  parapets 
of  others  he  looked  up.  Upon  some  there  were  gardens 
planted — so,  he  thought,  must  have  looked  the  hang- 
ing gardens  of  Babylon;  on  others,  linen  was  strung 

297 


THE  TRUANTS 

out  to  dry,  as  in  some  backyard  of  England;  the  min- 
arets, here  inlaid  with  white  and  green  tiles,  there  built 
simply  of  bricks  and  brown  plaster,  rose  high  into  the 
limpid  air.  And  on  the  towers  were  the  great  nests 
of  storks. 

Warrisden  looked  abroad,  and  in  the  sunlight  his 
hopes  revived.  It  seemed  that  it  must  have  been  into 
another  town  that  he  had  entered  last  night.  No- 
where could  he  see  the  gash  of  a  street  in  that  plateau 
of  roof-tops — so  narrow  they  were;  and  no  noise  rose 
at  all,  they  were  so  deep.  Here  the  only  sound  audible 
was  the  chattering  of  women's  voices — for  the  roofs 
are  the  playgrounds  of  the  women,  and  Warrisden 
could  see  them  in  their  colored  handkerchiefs  and  robes 
clustered  together,  climbing  from  one  house  to  an- 
other with  the  help  of  ladders,  visiting  their  friends. 
But  of  all  the  clamor  which  must  needs  be  resounding 
in  those  crowded  streets,  not  even  one  stray  cry  of 
"Balak!"  reached  to  this  upper  air.  Lower  down  the 
hill  to  the  east  Warrisden  could  see  the  city  wall  and 
the  gate  through  which  Stretton  must  pass  when  he 
came.     And  he  might  come  to-day! 

That  was  Warrisden 's  thought.  He  went  down  the 
stairs,  had  his  horse  brought  into  the  dark  street  be- 
fore the  door,  and,  accompanied  by  his  mehazni,  that 
old  soldier  who  had  ridden  with  him  from  Tangier, 
went  out  of  the  city  over  the  plain  towards  Sefru. 
For  through  that  small  town  of  gardens  and  fruit  at 
the  base  of  the  Atlas  spur  Stretton  would  come.  But 
he  did  not  come  on  that  day  nor  on  the  next.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  Ibrahim,  Warrisden's  guide,  brought 
bad  news. 

He  mounted  to  the  roof  in  the  morning,  while  War- 
risden sat  there  after  his  breakfast,  and  crouched  down 

298 


THE   TRUANTS 

behind  the  parapet  so  that  he  might  not  be  seen.  For 
the  men  leave  the  roof-tops  to  their  women  folk,  and 
do  not  trespass  there  themselves. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "the  road  between  Djebel  Silfat  and 
Djebel  Zarhon  is  cut.  Word  has  come  into  Fez  this 
morning.  The  Z'mur  have  come  down  from  the  hills 
and  sit  across'^the  road,  stopping  and  robbing  every 
one." 

Warrisden  sat  up. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked.  He  was,  as  he  knew, 
in  a  country  of  Kars.  Ibrahim,  in  addition,  was  a 
coward  in  the  country  districts,  though  the  best  of 
braggarts  at  Tangier.  He  had  ridden  on  his  mule 
slung  about  with  weapons — a  Spanish  rifle  on  his  back, 
a  revolver  in  his  belt,  and  a  Winchester  in  his  hands; 
while  between  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  he  carried 
ready  four  cartridges — but  he  was  none  the  less  afraid. 
However,  Warrisden  remembered  that  mountain-pass 
which  led  from  the  plain  of  the  Sebou  up  to  Segota. 
It  was  very  lonely,  it  was  narrow,  the  road  looped  per- 
petually round  the  bases  of  the  round  buttresses  of 
Djebel  Silfat.  It  would  certainly  be  an  awkward  place 
wherein  to  be  entrapped. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  sure,"  repHed  Ibrahim,  "the  Z'mur 
are  bad  men.  They  might  capture  you  and  hold  you 
to  ransom." 

Warrisden  was  inclined  to  discount  Ibrahim's  terror 
of  the  Z'mur.  The  lawless  deeds  of  that  wild  and 
fanatical  tribe  had  been  dinned  into  his  ears  ever 
since  he  had  crossed  the  Sebou,  until  he  had  come  to 
make  light  of  them.  But  there  was  no  doubt  they 
terrorized  the  people;  in  the  villages  where  Warrisden 
had  camped  they  were  spoken  of  with  a  dread  hardly 
less  than  that  which  Ibrahim  betrayed.     It  would  cer- 

299 


THE   TRUANTS 

tainly  never  do  to  be  taken  by  the  Z'mur.  They  would 
be  released,  no  doubc;  but  time  would  be  wasted. 
They  might  be  kept  for  weeks  in  the  forest  of  Marmura. 
They  would  reach  Roquebrune  too  late. 

Warrisden  had  brought  with  him,  as  a  servant,  one 
of  the  men  who  had  been  with  him  to  Ain-Sefra,  and 
descending  the  stairs  he  called  him,  and  spoke,  bid- 
ding Ibrahim  interpret. 

"Do  you  remember  the  mule  which  I  gave  away  at 
Ain-Sefra?"  he  asked.     And  the  man  answered,  "Yes!" 

"You  would  know  it  again?" 

The  man  was  sure  upon  that  point.  He  described 
the  marks  by  which  he  would  recognize  the  beast. 

"Very  well,"  said  Warrisden.  "Go  out  to  the  west 
of  Fez  and  watch  the  road  to  Sefru.  If  you  see  a 
Jew  come  towards  Fez  driving  the  mule  lead  him  at 
once  to  this  house.  Watch  all  day  until  the  gate  is 
closed." 

The  man  went  off  upon  his  errand  and  Warrisden 
betook  himself  to  the  vice-consulate.  On  his  return 
he  summoned  Ibrahim,  and  said: 

"We  must  travel  by  Mequinez  and  Mediyah.  A 
letter  will  be  given  to  us,  passing  us  on  from  governor 
to  governor.  We  can  reach  Larache,  travelling  hard, 
in  five  days.  We  may  find  a  steamer  there  for  Gi- 
braltar. If  not,  we  must  go  on,  in  one  more  day,  to 
Tangier." 

Ibrahim  bowed  his  head  and  made  no  further  pro- 
test. In  the  evening  Warrisden 's  servant  came  back 
from  the  gate;  his  watch  had  been  fruitless.  Thus 
three  days  had  passed.  Warrisden  became  anxious 
again  and  restless.  The  seven  days  which  Tony  Stret- 
ton  could  take,  and  still  reach  Roquebrune  by  the  date 
on  which  Pamela  insisted,  were  now  curtailed.     Six 

300 


THE   TRUANTS 

days  formed  the  limit,  and  even  that  limit  implied 
that  the  journey  should  be  of  the  swiftest.  Of  those 
six  days  three  had  gone. 

The  fourth  came  and  passed.  Warrisden  rode  out 
upon  the  track  to  Sefru  in  vain.  Even  the  promised 
letter  did  not  come.  Warrisden  made  inquiries.  It 
would  come,  he  was  told.  There  was  no  doubt  upon 
that  score.  But  a  government  letter  takes  a  long 
time  in  the  writing  in  Morocco.  It  was  not  until  the 
fifth  evening  that  a  messenger  from  the  palace  knock- 
ed upon  the  door.  These  were  the  days  when  Mulai- 
el-Hassan  ruled  in  Morocco  and  was  on  the  march 
against  his  rebellious  tribes  for  nine  months  out  of 
the  twelve.  Mulai-el-Hassan,  at  this  particular  time, 
was  far  away  to  the  south  in  the  Sus  country,  and, 
therefore,  the  mountain-pass  to  the  north  was  dan- 
gerous. 

Warrisden  had  his  letter,  however,  sealed  with  the 
viceroy's  seal.  But  he  gazed  out  over  the  city,  as  it 
lay,  warm  and  ruddy  in  the  sunset,  and  wondered 
whether  it  would  avail  at  all.  His  servant  had  come 
back  from  the  gate  with  his  familiar  answer.  No  Jew 
had  driven  the  mule  down  the  road  into  Fez  that  day. 
And  there  was  only  one  more  day. 

Warrisden  descended  the  stairs  to  the  gallery  on  the 
first  floor,  and  as  he  came  out  upon  it  he  heard  voices 
in  the  court-yard  below.  He  looked  over  the  balus- 
trade and  saw  a  man  standing  among  his  muleteers  and 
servants.  Warrisden  could  not  see  his  face.  He  was 
dressed  in  rags,  but  the  rags  were  the  remnants  of  a 
black  gabardine,  and  he  wore  a  black  skull-cap  upon 
his  head. 

It  is  likely  that  Warrisden  would  have  taken  no 
further  notice  of  the  man  but  that  he  cringed  a  little  in 

301 


THE   TRUANTS 

his  manner  as  though  he  was  afraid.  Then  he  spoke 
in  Arabic,  and  the  voice  was  timorous  and  apologetic. 
Warrisden,  however,  knew  it  none  the  less.  He  leaned 
over  the  balustrade. 

"Stretton!"  he  cried  out,  in  a  burst  of  joy. 

The  man  in  the  court-yard  looked  up.  Warrisden 
would  never  have  known  him  but  for  his  voice.  A 
ragged  beard  stubbled  his  cheeks  and  chin;  he  was  dis- 
figured with  dirt  and  bruises;  he  was  lean  with  hunger; 
his  face  was  drawn  and  hollow  from  lack  of  sleep.  But 
there  was  something  more,  a  wider  difference  between 
this  ragged  Stretton  in  the  court-yard  and  the  Stretton 
Warrisden  had  known  than  mere  looks  explained.  The 
man  who  had  looked  up  when  he  heard  his  voice  loudly 
and  suddenly  pronounced  had  been  startled  —  nay, 
more  than  startled.  He  had  raised  an  arm  as  though 
to  ward  off  a  blow.  He  had  shrunk  back.  He  had 
been  afraid.  Even  now,  when  he  looked  at  Warrisden 
and  knew  that  he  was  here  in  a  house  of  safety,  he 
stood  drawing  deep  breaths,  and  trembling  like  one 
who  has  received  a  shock.  His  appearance  told  War- 
risden much  of  the  dangers  of  the  journey  from  Ain- 
Sefra  through  the  hills  to  Fez. 

"Yes,"  said  Tony,  "I  am  here.     Am  I  in  time?" 

"Just  in  time,"  cried  Warrisden.  "Oh,  but  I 
thought  you  never  would  come!" 

He  ran  down  the  steps  into  the  court-yard. 

"Balak!"  cried  Stretton,  with  a  laugh.  "Wait  till 
I  have  had  a  bath  and  got  these  clothes  burned." 

In  such  guise  Tony  Stretton  came  to  Fez.  He  had 
gone  straight  to  the  vice  -  consulate,  and  thence  had 
been  directed  to  Warrisden's  house.  When,  an  hour 
later,  he  came  up  onto  the  gallery  and  sat  down  to  din- 
ner he  was  wearing  the  clothes  of  a  European,  and  the 

302 


"he  had  raised  an  arm  as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow 


THE   TRUANTS 

look  of  fear  had  gone  from  his  face,  the  servility  from 
his  manner.  But  Warrisden  could  not  forget  either  the 
one  or  the  other.  Tony  Stretton  had  come  through 
the  mountains  —  yes.  But  the  way  had  not  been 
smooth. 


XXVIII 
HOMEWARD 

THE  two  men  smoked  together  upon  the  roof -top 
afterwards. 

"I  left  a  man  at  the  gate  all  day,"  said  Warrisden, 
"to  watch  the  track  from  Sefru.  I  had  brought  him 
from  Algiers.  I  do  not  know  how  he  came  to  miss 
you." 

"He  could  not  know  me,"  said  Tony,  "and  I  spoke 
to  no  one." 

"But  he  knew  the  mule!" 

Tony  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then  he  said,  in  a 
low,  grave  voice,  like  a  man  speaking  upon  matters 
which  he  has  no  liking  to  remember, 

"The  mule  was  taken  from  me  some  days  ago  in  the 
Ait  Yussi  country." 

And  Warrisden  upon  that  said,  "You  had  trouble, 
then,  upon  the  way,  great  trouble?" 

Again  Tony  was  slow  in  the  reply.  He  looked  out 
across  the  city.  It  was  a  night  of  moonlight,  so  bright 
that  the  stars  were  pale  and  small  as  though  they  were 
withdrawn;  there  was  no  cloud  anywhere  about  the 
sky,  and  on  such  a  night,  in  that  clear,  translucent  air, 
the  city,  with  its  upstanding  minarets,  had  a  grace  and 
beauty  denied  to  it  by  day.  There  was  something  of 
enchantment  in  its  aspect.  Tony  smoked  his  pipe  in 
silence  for  a  little  while.     Then  he  said: 

"Let  us  not  talk  about  it!     I  never  thought  that  I 

304 


THE   TRUANTS 

would  be  sitting  here  in  Fez  to-night.     Tell  me  rather 
when  we  start!" 

"Early  to-morrow,"  replied  Warrisden.  "We  must 
reach  Roquebrune,  in  the  south  of  France,  by  the 
thirty-first." 

Stretton  suddenly  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

"Roquebrune!  France!"  he  exclaimed.  "We  must 
go  there?     Why?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  Warrisden  answered.  "A  tele- 
gram reached  me  at  Tangier.     I  kept  it." 

He  took  the  telegram  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it 
to  Stretton,  who  read  it  and  sat  thinking, 

"We  have  time,"  said  Warrisden,"  just  time  enough, 
I  think,  if  we  travel  fast." 

"Good,"  said  Stretton,  as  he  returned  the  telegram. 
"But  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  time." 

He  did  not  explain  what  had  caused  him  to  start  at 
the  mention  of  Roquebrune ;  but  after  sitting  for  a  lit- 
tle while  longer  in  silence  he  betook  himself  to  bed. 

Early  the  next  morning  they  rode  out  of  the  Bab 
Sagma  upon  the  thronged  highway  over  the  plain  to 
Mequinez. 

The  caravans  diminished,  striking  off  into  this  or 
that  track.  Very  soon  there  remained  with  them  only 
one  party  of  five  Jews  mounted  on  small  donkeys. 
They  began  to  ride  through  high  shrubs  and  bushes  of 
fennel  over  rolling  ground.  Stretton  talked  very  little, 
and  as  the  track  twisted  and  circled  across  the  plain 
he  was  continually  standing  up  in  his  stirrups  and 
searching  the  horizon. 

"There  does  not  seem  to  be  one  straight  path  in 
Morocco,"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "Look  at  this 
one.  There's  no  reason  why  it  should  not  run  straight. 
Yet  it  never  does." 

305 


THE   TRUANTS 

Indeed,  the  track  lay  across  that  open  plain  like  some 
brown  monstrous  serpent  of  a  legend. 

"I  do  not  believe,"  replied  Warrisden,  "that  there  is 
a  straight  path  anywhere  in  the  world,  unless  it  is  one 
which  has  been  surveyed  and  made,  or  unless  it  runs 
from  gate  to  gate  and  both  gates  are  visible.  One 
might  think  the  animals  made  this  track,  turning  and 
twisting  to  avoid  the  bushes.  Only  the  tracks  are  no 
straighter  in  the  desert  where  there  are  no  bushes  at 
all." 

They  halted  for  half  an  hour  at  eleven  beside  a  bridge 
which  crossed  a  stream,  broken  and  ruinous,  but  still 
serviceable.  And  while  they  sat  on  the  ground  under 
the  shadow  they  suddenly  heard  a  great  clatter  of 
hoofs  upon  the  broken  cobbles,  and  looking  up  saw  a 
body  of  men  ride  across  the  bridge.  There  were  about 
forty  of  them,  young  and  old;  all  were  mounted,  and  in 
appearance  as  wild  and  ragged  a  set  of  bandits  as  could 
be  imagined.  As  they  rode  over  the  bridge  they  saw 
Warrisden  and  Stretton  seated  on  the  ground  beneath 
them,  and  without  a  word  or  a  shout  they  halted  as 
one  man.  Their  very  silence  was  an  intimidating 
thing. 

"  Z'mur,"  whispered  Ibrahim.  He  was  shaking  with 
fear.  Warrisden  noticed  that  the  two  soldiers  who 
accompanied  them  on  this  journey  to  Mequinez  quietly 
mounted  their  horses.  Stretton  and  Warrisden  rose 
to  do  likewise.  And  as  they  rose  a  dozen  of  the  mount- 
ed Z'mur  quietly  rode  round  from  the  end  of  the 
bridge  and  stood  between  them  and  the  stream.  Then 
the  leader,  a  big  man  with  a  black  beard  turning  gray, 
began  to  talk  in  a  quiet  and  pleasant  voice  to  the 
soldiers. 

"You   are  bringing   Europeans  into   our   country. 

306 


THE   TRUANTS 

Now,  why  are  you  doing  that  ?     We  do  not  Hke  Euro- 
peans." 

The  soldiers  no  less  pleasantly  replied: 

"  Your  country  ?  The  Europeans  are  travelling  with 
a  letter  from  your  master  and  mine,  my  lord  the  Sultan, 
to  the  governor  of  Mequinez." 

"  You  will  show  ue,  then,  the  letter?" 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  the  soldier  replied, 
with  a  smile.  The  Z'mur  did  not  move;  the  two  sol- 
diers sat  upon  their  horses  smiling — it  seemed  that 
matters  had  come  to  a  dead-lock.  Meanwhile  Warris- 
den  and  Stretton  got  into  their  saddles.  Then  the 
leader  of  the  Z'mur  spoke  again. 

"  We  passed  five  Jews  riding  on  donkeys  a  little  while 
ago.  They  were  kind  enough  when  we  stopped  them 
to  give  us  a  peseta  apiece.  We  are  going  to  Fez  to  offer 
our  help  to  the  Sultan,  if  only  he  will  give  us  rifles  and 
ammunition.  But  we  shall  go  home  again  when  we 
have  got  them.  Perhaps  the  Europeans  would  like  to 
give  us  a  peseta  apiece  as  well." 

"I  do  not  think  they  would  like  it  at  all,"  said  the 
soldier.  "Salem  aleikum!"  and  he  turned  his  horse, 
and,  followed  by  Warrisden  and  Stretton,  the  terrified 
Ibrahim,  and  the  train  of  mules,  he  rode  right  through 
the  forty  Z'mur  and  over  the  bridge. 

It  was  an  awkward  moment,  but  the  men  of  War- 
risden's  party  assumed  with  what  skill  they  could  an 
air  of  unconcern.  Trouble  was  very  near  to  them. 
It  needed  only  that  one  of  those  wild  tribesmen  should 
reach  out  his  hand  and  seize  the  bridle  of  a  horse. 
But  no  hand  was  reached  out.  The  Z'mur  were 
caught  in  a  moment  of  indecision.  They  sat  upon 
their  horses  motionless.  They  let  the  Europeans 
pass. 

307 


THE   TRUANTS 

Ibrahim,  however,  drew  no  comfort  from  their  at- 
titude. 

"  It  is  because  they  wish  rifles  and  ammunition  from 
the  government,"  he  said.  "Therefore,  they  will 
avoid  trouble  until  they  have  got  them.  But  with 
the  next  party  it  will  not  be  so." 

There  arc  three  water-falls  in  Morocco,  and  of  those 
three  one  falls  in  a  great  cascade  between  red  cliffs 
into  a  dark  pool  thirty  feet  below,  close  by  the  village 
of  Medhuma.  By  this  water-fall  they  lunched,  the 
while  Ibrahim  bared  his  right  arm  to  the  shoulder, 
stretched  himself  full  length  upon  the  ground,  and,  to 
the  infinite  danger  of  the  by-standers,  practised  shoot- 
ing with  his  revolver.  They  lunched  quickly  and  rode 
on.  Towards  evening,  above  a  grove  of  trees  on  a  hill, 
they  saw  here  and  there  a  minaret. 

"Mequinez!"  exclaimed  Ibrahim.  "Schoof!  Me- 
quinez!" 

In  a  little  while  fragments  of  thick  wall  began  to 
show,  scattered  here  and  there  about  the  plain.  Brown 
walls,  high  and  crumbling  to  ruin,  walls  that  never 
had  been  walls  of  houses,  but  which  began  and  ended 
for  no  reason.  They  were  all  that  was  left  of  the  work 
of  Mulai  Ismail,  who,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  had 
built  and  planned  buildings  about  this  town  until 
death  put  an  end  to  all  his  architecture.  There  was 
to  be  a  wall  across  the  country,  from  Fez  to  Morocco 
city  far  away  in  the  south,  so  that  the  blind,  of  which 
this  kingdom  still  has  many,  and  then  was  full,  might 
pass  from  one  town  to  another  without  a  guide.  Part 
of  that  wall  was  built,  and  fragments  of  it  rise  among 
the  oleanders  and  the  bushes  to  this  day. 

The  travellers  entered  now  upon  a  park.  A  green, 
mossy  turf  spread  out  soft  beneath  the  feet  of  their 

308 


THE   TRUANTS 

horses,  dwarf  oaks  made  everywhere  a  pleasant  shade; 
Stretton  had  lost  sight  now  of  the  minarets,  and  no 
sign  of  Mequinez  was  visible  at  all.  The  ground 
sloped  downward,  the  track  curved  round  a  hill,  and 
suddenly  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  valley  they  saw  the 
royal  city,  with  its  high  walls  and  gates,  its  white 
houses,  and  its  green-tiled  mosques  and  its  old,  gray, 
massive  palaces  stretch  along  the  hill-side  before  their 
eyes. 

One  of  the  soldiers  rode  forward  into  the  town  to 
find  the  basha  and  present  his  letters.  A  troop  of 
men  came  out  in  a  little  time  and  led  the  travellers  up 
the  cobbled  stones  through  a  gateway  into  the  wide 
space  before  the  Renegade's  Gate,  that  wonderful 
monument  of  Moorish  art  which  neither  the  wear  of 
the  centuries  nor  the  neglect  of  its  possessors  has 
availed  to  destroy.  Its  tiles  are  broken.  The  rains 
have  discolored  it,  stones  have  fallen  from  their  places. 
Yet  the  gate  rises,  majestic  yet  most  delicate,  beauti- 
ful in  color,  exquisite  in  shape,  flanked  with  massive 
pillars  and  surmounted  by  its  soaring  arch,  a  piece  of 
embroidery  in  stone,  fine  as  though  the  stone  were 
lace.  By  the  side  of  this  arch  the  camp  was  pitched 
just  about  the  time  when  the  horses  and  mules  are 
brought  down  to  roll  in  the  dust  of  the  square  and 
to  drink  at  the  two  great  fountains  beyond  the  gate. 

Later  in  that  evening  there  came  a  messenger  from 
the  basha  with  servants  bearing  bowls  of  kouss- 
kouss. 

"Fourteen  soldiers  will  ride  with  you  to-morrow," 
he  said,  "  for  the  country"  is  not  safe.  It  will  be  well  if 
you  start  early,  for  you  have  a  long  way  to  go." 

"The  earlier  the  better,"  said  Stretton. 

"It  will  do  if  you  breakfast  at  five — half -past  five," 

309 


THE   TRUANTS 

said  Ibrahim,  to  whom  punctuaHty  was  a  thing  un- 
known.    "And  start  at  six — half-past  six." 

"No,"  said  Warrisden.  "We  will  start  at  five — 
half-past  five." 

That  night  a  company  of  soldiers  kept  guard  about 
the  tents,  and  passed  the  hours  of  darkness  in  calling 
to  one  another  and  chanting  one  endless,  plaintive 
melody.  Little  sleep  was  possible  to  the  two  Eng- 
lishmen, and  to  one  of  them  sleep  did  not  come  at  all. 
Now  and  then  Warrisden  dropped  off  and  waked 
again ;  and  once  or  twice  he  struck  a  match  and  lit  his 
candle.  Each  time  that  he  did  this  he  saw  Stretton 
lying  quite  motionless  in  his  bed  on  the  other  side  of  the 
tent.  Tony  lay  with  the  bedclothes  up  to  his  chin 
and  his  arms  straight  down  at  his  sides,  in  some  un- 
canny resemblance  to  a  dead  man.  But  Warrisden 
saw  that  all  the  while  his  eyes  were  open.  Tony  was 
awake  with  his  troubles  and  perplexities,  keeping 
them  to  himself  as  was  his  wont,  and  slowly  searching 
for  an  issue.  That  he  would  hit  upon  the  issue  he  did 
not  doubt.  He  had  these  few  days  for  thought,  and  it 
was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  had  to  map  out  a  line 
of  conduct.  His  course  might  be  revealed  to  him  at  the 
very  last  moment,  as  it  had  been  on  the  trawler  in  the 
North  Sea.  Or  it  might  flash  upon  him  in  a  second, 
as  the  necessity  to  desert  had  flashed  upon  him  amid 
the  aloes  of  Ain-Sefra.  Meanwhile  he  lay  awake  and 
thought. 

They  started  early  that  morning,  and,  crossing  a 
valley,  mounted  on  to  that  high,  wide  plain  Djebel 
Zarhon  and  Djebel  Geronan.  They  left  the  town  of 
Mequinez  behind  them;  its  minarets  dropped  out  of 
sight.  They  had  come  into  a  most  empty  world.  Not 
a  tent-village  stood  anywhere  beside  the  track.     Far 

310 


THE  TRUANTS 

away  to  the  right,  in  a  deep  recess,  the  white,  sacred 
town  of  Mulai  Idris  fell  down  the  dark  side  of  Zarhon 
like  a  cascade.  A  little  farther  an  arch  of  stone  and 
a  few  pillars  rising  from  the  plain  showed  where  once 
the  Romans  had  built  their  town  of  Volubilis.  But 
when  that  was  passed  there  was  no  sign  of  life  any- 
where at  all.  For  hours  they  rode  in  a  desolate,  beau- 
tiful world.  Bushes  of  asphodel,  white  with  their 
starry  flowers,  brushed  against  them;  plants  of  iris, 
purple  and  yellow,  stood  stirrup-high  upon  their  path; 
and  at  times  the  bushes  would  cease,  and  they  would 
ride  over  a  red  carpet  of  marigolds,  which  would  pale 
away  into  the  gold  of  the  mustard  flower.  Flowers 
were  about  them  all  that  day,  but  no  living  things. 
Even  the  air  above  their  heads  was  still.  The  country 
seemed  too  empty  even  for  the  birds. 

At  eleven  o'clock  they  stopped  beside  a  stream 
which  ran  prettily  between  trees  across  their  path. 

"We  shall  find  no  more  water  until  evening,"  said 
Ibrahim.     "We  will  stop  here." 

Stretton  dismounted,  and  said: 

"We  can  send  the  mules  on  and  catch  them  up. 
It  will  save  time." 

The  soldiers  shook  their  heads. 

"We  are  in  the  Berber  country,"  they  said.  "We 
must  not  separate." 

Stretton  looked  around  impatiently. 

"But  there  is  no  one  within  miles,"  he  exclaimed; 
and,  as  if  to  contradict  him,  a  man  walked  out  from 
the  bushes  by  the  stream  and  came  towards  them. 
He  had  been  robbed  on  this  very  track  not  two  hours 
before  by  eleven  mounted  Berbers.  He  had  been 
driving  three  mules  laden  with  eggs  and  food  to  Mulai 
Idris,  and  his  mules  and  their  loads  had  been  taken 

311 


THE   TRUANTS 

from  him.  He  was  walking  home,  absolutely  penni- 
less. His  whole  fortune  had  been  lost  that  day;  and 
when  once  again  the  travellers  started  upon  their  jour- 
ney he  ran  at  a  trot  beside  their  horses  for  safety's 
sake. 

The  road  mounted  now  on  to  stony  and  mountain- 
ous country.  It  wound  continually,  ascending  in  and 
out  among  low,  round  peaks  towards  the  summit  of 
a  great  line  of  hills  which  ran  from  east  to  west  opposite 
to  them  against  the  sky. 

"Beyond  the  hills,"  cried  Ibrahim,  "is  the  plain  of 
the  Sebou." 

A  big  village  crowned  the  hill  just  where  the  track 
ascended.  It  had  been  placed  there  to  protect  the 
road.  In  a  little  while  they  came  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  and  suddenly  they  saw,  far  below  them,  the  great 
plain  of  the  Sebou,  green  and  level,  dotted  with  vil- 
lages and  the  white  tombs  of  saints  and  clumps  of 
trees,  stretching  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
It  was  afternoon,  not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky,  and  the 
sun  shone  through  the  clear,  golden  air  beneficently 
bright.  The  hill-side  fell  away  to  the  plain  with  a  de- 
scent so  sheer,  the  plain  broke  so  abruptly  upon  the 
eyes,  that  the  very  beauty  of  the  scene  caught  the 
breath  away.  Both  Warrisden  and  Stretton  reined  in 
their  horses,  and  sat  looking  across  the  plain  as  a  man 
might  Avho  suddenly,  from  the  crest  of  some  white  cliff, 
sees  for  the  first  time  the  sea.  And  then  Warrisden 
heard  his  companion  begin  to  hum  a  song.  He  caught 
some  of  the  words,  but  not  many. 

"Oh,  come  out,  mah  love,  I'm  awaitin'  foh  you 
heah!"  Tony  began,  and  suddenly  checked  himself 
with  an  expression  of  anger,  as  though  the  words  had 
associations  which  it  hurt  him  to  recall. 

312 


THE  TRUANTS 

"Let  us  ride  on,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  down  the 
steep,  winding  track  towards  the  plain. 

They  pressed  on  that  evening,  and  camped  late  in 
the  Beni  Hassan  country.  Stretton  slept  that  night, 
but  he  slept  fitfully.  He  had  not  yet  come  to  the  end 
of  his  perplexities,  and  as  he  rode  away  from  their 
camping-ground  in  the  morning  he  said,  impulsively: 

"It  is  quite  true.  I  have  thought  of  it.  I  am  to 
blame.     I  should  have  gone  into  the  house  that  night." 

He  was  endeavoring  to  be  just,  and  to  this  criticism 
of  himself  he  continually  recurred.  He  should  have 
entered  his  house  in  Berkeley  Square  on  the  night  when 
he  contented  himself  with  looking  up  to  the  lighted 
windows.  He  should  have  gone  in  and  declared  what 
was  in  his  mind  to  do.  Very  likely  he  would  have  only 
made  matters  worse.  Contempt  for  a  visionary  would 
very  likely  have  been  added  to  the  contempt  for  a 
ne'er-do-weel.  Certainly  no  faith  would  have  been  felt 
by  Millie  in  the  success  of  his  plan.  He  would  have 
been  asked,  in  a  lukewarm  way,  to  abandon  it  and  stay 
at  home.  Still,  he  ought  to  have  gone  in.  He  had 
made  a  mistake  that  night. 

All  that  day  they  rode  through  the  Beni  Hassan 
country  westward.  The  plain  was  level  and  monoto- 
nous; they  passed  village  after  village,  each  one  built  in 
a  circle  round  a  great  space  of  open  turf  into  which  the 
cattle  were  driven  at  night.  For  upon  the  hills,  and  in 
the  forest  of  Mamura  to  the  south,  close  by,  the  Z'mur 
lived,  and  between  the  Beni  Hassan  and  the  Z'mur 
there  is  always  war.  In  the  afternoon  they  came  to 
the  borders  of  that  forest,  and  skirting  its  edge,  tow- 
ards evening  reached  the  caravanserai  of  El  Kantra. 

The  travellers  saw  it  some  while  before  they  came 
to  it — four  high,  smooth,  castellated  walls  crowning  a 

313 


THE   TRUANTS 

low  hill.  It  stands  upon  the  road  from  Fez  to  Rabat, 
and  close  to  the  road  from  Rabat  to  Larache,  and  a  gar- 
rison guards  it.  For  you  could  almost  throw  a  stone 
from  its  walls  into  the  trees  of  Mamura.  Stretton  and 
Warrisden  rode  round  the  walls  to  the  gate,  and  as 
they  passed  beneath  the  arch  both  halted  and  looked 
back. 

Outside  was  a  quiet  country  of  gray  colors;  the 
sun  was  near  to  its  setting;  far  away  the  broken  walls 
of  the  old  Portuguese  town  of  Mediyah  stood  upon  a 
point  of  vantage  on  a  hill-side,  like  some  ruined  castle 
of  the  Tyrol.  Inside  the  caravanserai  all  was  noise 
and  shouting  and  confusion.  In  the  thickness  of  the 
walls  there  were  little  rooms  or  cells,  and  in  these  the 
merchants  were  making  their  homes  for  the  night, 
while  about  them  their  servants  and  muleteers  buzzed 
like  a  hive  of  bees.  And  the  whole  great  square  within 
the  walls  was  one  lake  of  filthy  mud  wherein  camels 
and  mules  and  donkeys  and  horses  rolled  and  stamped 
and  fought.  A  deafening  clamor  rose  to  the  skies. 
Every  discordant  sound  that  the  created  world  could 
produce  seemed  to  be  brayed  from  that  jostling  throng 
of  animals  as  from  some  infernal  orchestra.  And  the 
smell  of  the  place  was  fetid. 

"Let  us  pitch  our  camp  outside!"  said  Warrisden. 
But  the  captain  of  the  garrison  came  hurrying  up. 

"No,"  he  cried,  excitedly.  "The  Z'mur!  The 
Z'mur!" 

Stretton  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  getting  a  Httle  bored  with  the  Z'mur,"  said 
he. 

"They  have  sent  in  word  to  us,"  the  captain  con- 
tinued, "that  they  mean  to  attack  us  to-night." 

Stretton  looked  perplexed. 

314 


THE   TRUANTS 

"But  why  send  in  word?"  he  asked. 

The  captain  of  the  garrison  looked  astonished  at  the 
question. 

"So  that  we  may  be  ready  for  them,  of  course,"  he 
rephed,  quite  seriously;  for  life  in  Morocco  has  some  of 
the  qualities  oi  opera-bouffe.  "So  you  must  come  in- 
side. You  have  a  letter  from  my  lord  the  basha  of  Fez, 
it  is  true.  If  the  letter  said  you  were  to  sleep  outside 
the  walls  of  El  Kantra,  then  I  would  kiss  the  seal  and 
place  it  against  my  forehead,  and  bring  out  my  five 
hundred  men  to  guard  you,  and  we  should  all  get  killed. 
But  it  does  not  say  so." 

His  five  hundred  men  were  really  short  of  fifty. 
Stretton  and  Warrisden  laughed;  but  they  had  to  go 
inside  the  caravanserai.  This  was  the  last  day  on 
which  they  ran  any  risk.  To-morrow  they  would 
cross  the  Sebou  at  Mediyah,  and  beyond  the  Sebou  the 
way  was  safe. 

They  rode  inside  the  caravanserai,  and  were  allotted 
a  cell  which  obtained  some  privacy  from  a  hurdle  fixed 
in  the  ground  in  front  of  it.  The  gates  of  the  caravan- 
serai were  closed,  the  sunset  flushed  the  blue  sky  with  a 
hue  of  rose ;  the  mueddhin  came  out  upon  the  minaret 
which  rose  from  the  southern  wall,  and  chanted  in  a 
monotone  his  call  to  prayer;  and  then  a  drummer  and 
a  bugler  advanced  into  the  crowded  square.  Sud- 
denly there  fell  upon  Stretton's  ears,  competing  with 
the  mueddhin  and  the  uproar  of  the  animals,  the  "Last 
Post." 

Stretton  started  up,  amazed,  and  most  deeply  moved. 
An  English  officer  instructed  the  Moorish  troops.  What 
more  natural  than  that  he  should  introduce  the  Eng- 
lish calls  and  signals  ?  But  to  Stretton  it  seemed  most 
wonderful  that  here,  in  this  Eastern  country,  while  the 

315 


THE   TRUANTS 

Mohammedan  priest  was  chanting  from  his  minaret, 
he  should  hear  again,  after  so  many  years,  that  famihar 
tattoo  sounded  by  an  Eastern  bugle  and  an  Eastern 
drum.  In  how  many  barracks  of  England,  he  won- 
dered, would  that  same  "Last  Post "  ring  out  to-night ? 
And  at  once  the  years  slipped  away,  the  hard  years  of 
the  North  Sea  and  the  Sahara.  He  was  carried  back 
among  the  days  when  he  served  in  the  Coldstream. 
Then  arose  in  his  heart  a  great  longing  that  something 
of  the  happiness  of  those  days  might  be  recaptured 
still. 

Warrisden  and  Stretton  crossed  the  Sebou  the  next 
morning,  and  rode  with  the  boom  of  the  Atlantic 
in  their  ears.  Hills  upon  their  left  hand  hid  the  sea 
from  their  eyes,  and  it  was  not  until  the  next  day, 
when  they  mounted  on  to  a  high  table-land  four  hours 
from  Larache,  that  they  saw  it  rolling  lazily  towards 
the  shore.  They  caught  a  steamer  at  Larache  that 
night. 


XXIX 
PAMELA  MEETS  A  STRANGER 

MEANWHILE  Pamela  waited  at  the  Villa  Pontig- 
nard,  swinging  from  hope  to  fear,  and  from  fear 
again  to  hope.  The  days  chased  one  another.  She 
watched  the  arrival  of  each  train  from  Marseilles  at  the 
little  station  below  with  an  expectant  heart ;  and  long 
after  it  had  departed  towards  Italy  she  kept  within 
her  vision  the  pathway  up  the  hill-side  to  the  villa. 
But  the  travellers  did  not  return.  Expectation  and 
disappointment  walked  alternately  at  her  elbow  all  the 
day,  and  each  day  seemed  endless.  Yet,  when  the 
next  day  came,  it  had  come  all  too  quickly.  Every 
morning  it  seemed  to  her,  as  she  turned  her  calendar, 
that  the  days  chased  one  another,  racing  to  the  month's 
end;  every  evening,  tired  out  with  her  vigil,  she  won- 
dered how  they  could  pass  so  slowly.  The  thirty-first 
of  the  month  dawned  at  last.  At  some  time  on  this 
day  Millie  Stretton  would  arrive  at  Eze.  She  thought 
of  it,  as  she  rose,  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  then  thrust 
thought  aside.  She  dared  not  confront  the  possibility 
that  the  trains  might  stop  at  Roquebrune,  and  move 
on  to  Italy  and  discharge  no  passengers  upon  the  plat- 
form. She  dared  not  recognize  her  dread  that  this  day 
might  close  and  the  darkness  come  as  fruitlessly  as  all 
the  rest.  It  was  her  last  day  of  hope.  Lionel  Gallon 
was  waiting.  Millie  Stretton  was  arriving.  To-mor- 
row Tony  might  come,  but  he  would  come  too  late. 

317 


THE   TRUANTS 

Pamela  lived  in  suspense.  Somehow  the  morning 
passed.  The  afternoon  Rapidc  swept  through  towards 
Mentone.  Pamela  saw  the  smoke  of  the  engine  from 
her  terrace,  and  knew  that  upon  that  train  had  come 
the  passenger  from  England.  Half  an  hour  ago  Millie 
had  most  likely  stepped  from  her  carriage  on  to  the 
platform  at  Eze.  And  still  Tony  Stretton  and  War- 
risden  lingered. 

Towards  dusk  she  began  to  despair.  In  a  little  while 
another  train  was  due.  She  heard  its  whistle,  saw  it 
stop  at  the  station,  and  waited  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  hill-side  path.  No  one  appeared  upon  it.  She 
turned  and  went  into  the  house.  She  thought  for  a 
moment  of  going  herself  to  Eze,  thrusting  herself  upon 
Millie  at  the  cost  of  any  snub;  and  while  she  debated 
whether  the  plan  could  at  all  avail,  the  door  was  opened, 
a  servant  spoke  some  words  about  a  visitor,  and  a  man 
entered  the  room.  Pamela  started  to  her  feet.  The 
man  stood  in  the  twilight  of  the  room:  his  back  was 
against  the  light  of  the  window.  Pamela  could  not 
see  his  face.  But  it  was  not  Warrisden,  so  much  she 
knew  at  once.     It  could  only  be  Tony  Stretton. 

"So  you  have  come,"  she  cried.  "At  last!  I  had 
given  up  hope." 

She  advanced  and  held  out  her  hand.  And  some 
reserve  in  Tony's  attitude,  something  of  coldness  in 
the  manner  with  which  he  took  her  hand,  checked  and 
chilled  her. 

"It  is  you?"  she  asked.  "I  watched  the  path. 
The  train  has  gone  some  while." 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  he  replied.  "I  had  to  inquire  my 
way  at  the  village.  This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  came 
to  Roquebrune." 

Still  more  than  the  touch  of  his  hand  and  the  reserve 

318 


THE   TRUANTS 

of  his  manner,  the  cold  reticence  of  his  voice  chilled 
her.     She  turned  to  the  servant  abruptly. 

"Bring  lamps,"  she  said.  She  felt  the  need  to  see 
Tony  Stretton's  face.  She  had  looked  forward  so 
eagerly  to  his  coming;  she  had  hoped  for  it,  and  de- 
spaired of  it  with  so  full  a  heart;  and  now  he  had 
come,  and  with  him  there  had  come,  most  unexpect- 
edly, disappointment.  She  had  expected  ardor,  and 
there  was  only,  as  it  seemed,  indifference  and  stolidity. 
She  was  prepared  for  a  host  of  questions  to  be  tum- 
bled out  upon  her  in  so  swift  a  succession  that  no  time 
was  given  to  her  for  an  answer  to  any  one  of  them;  and 
he  stood  before  her  seemingly  cold  as  stone.  Had  he 
ceased  to  care  for  Millie,  she  wondered. 

"You  have  come  as  quickly  as  you  could?"  she 
asked,  trying  to  read  his  features  in  the  obscurity. 

"I  have  not  lost  a  moment  since  I  received  your 
letter,"  he  answered. 

She  caught  at  the  words,  "your  letter."  Perhaps 
there  lay  the  reason  for  his  reserve.  She  had  written 
frankly,  perhaps  too  frankly  she  feared  at  this  mo- 
ment. Had  the  letter  suddenly  killed  his  love  for 
Millie?  Such  things,  no  doubt,  could  happen — had 
happened.  Disillusion  might  have  withered  it  like  a 
swift  shaft  of  lightning. 

"My  letter,"  she  said.  "You  must  not  exaggerate 
its  meaning.     You  read  it  carefully?" 

"Very  carefully." 

"And  I  wrote  it  carefully,"  she  went  on,  pleading 
with  his  indifference — "very  carefully." 

"It  contains  the  truth,"  said  Tony;  "I  did  not 
doubt  that." 

"Yes;  but  it  contains  all  the  truth,"  she  urged. 
"You  must  not  doubt  that,  either.     Remember,  you 

319 


THE   TRUANTS 

yourself  are  to  blame.  I  wrote  that,  didn't  I?  I 
meant  it." 

"Yes,  you  wrote  that,"  answered  Tony.  "I  am 
not  denying  that  you  are  right.  It  may  well  be  that 
I  am  to  blame.  It  may  well  be  that  you,  too,  are  not 
quite  free  from  blame.  Had  you  told  me  that  morn- 
ing, when  we  rode  together  in  the  Row,  what  you  had 
really  meant  when  you  said  that  I  ought  never  to  leave 
my  wife — "     And  at  that  Pamela  interrupted  him. 

"Would  you  have  stayed  if  I  had  explained?"  she 
cried.  And  Tony  for  a  moment  was  silent.  Then  he 
answered,  slowly: 

"No;  for  I  should  not  have  believed  you."  And 
then  he  moved  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered 
the  room.  "However,  it  can  do  neither  of  us  any 
good  to  discuss  what  we  might  have  done  had  we 
known  then  what  we  know  now." 

He  stopped  as  the  door  opened.  The  lamps  were 
brought  in  and  set  upon  the  tables.  Tony  waited 
until  the  servant  had  gone  out  and  the  door  was 
closed  again,  then  he  said: 

"You  sent  a  telegram.  I  am  here  in  answer  to  it. 
I  was  to  be  at  Roquebrune  on  the  thirty-first.  This 
is  the  thirty-first.     Am  I  in  time  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pamela. 

She  could  now  see  Tony  clearly;  and  of  one  thing 
she  at  once  was  sure.  She  had  been  misled  by  the 
twilight  of  the  room.  Tony,  at  all  events,  was  not 
indifferent.  He  stood  before  her  travel-stained  and 
worn.  His  face  was  haggard  and  thin;  his  eyes  very 
tired,  like  the  eyes  of  an  old  man;  there  were  flecks  of 
gray  in  his  hair  and  lines  about  his  eyes.  These 
changes  she  noticed  and  took  them  at  their  true  value. 
They  were  signs  of  the  hard  life  he  had  lived  during 

320 


THE  TRUANTS 

these  years,  and  of  the  quick,  arduous  journey  which 
he  had  made.  But  there  was  more.  If  Tony  had 
spoken  with  a  measured  voice,  it  was  in  order  that 
he  might  control  himself  the  better.  If  he  had  stood 
without  gesture  or  motion,  it  was  because  he  felt  the 
need  to  keep  himself  in  hand.  So  much  Pamela  clear- 
ly saw.     Tony  was  laboring  under  a  strong  emotion. 

"Yes,  you  are  in  time,"  she  cried;  and  now  her 
heart  was  glad.  "I  was  so  set  on  saving  both  your 
lives,  in  keeping  you  and  Millie  for  each  other.  Of 
late,  since  you  did  not  come,  my  faith  faltered  a  little. 
But  it  should  not  have  faltered.  You  are  here!  You 
are  here!" 

"My  wife  is  here,  too?"  asked  Tony,  coldly,  and 
Pamela's  enthusiasm  again  was  checked.  "Where  is 
she?" 

"She  arrives  in  the  south  of  France  to-day.  She 
stops  at  Eze.     She  should  be  there  now." 

She  had  hoped  to  see  the  blood  pulse  into  his  face 
and  some  look  of  gladness  dawn  suddenly  in  his  eyes, 
some  smile  of  forgiveness  alter  the  stern  set  of  his  lips. 
But  again  she  was  disappointed. 

Tony  seemed  to  put  his  wife  out  of  his  thoughts. 

"And  since  your  message  was  so  urgent,"  he  con- 
tinued, deliberately,  "it  follows  that  Gallon  comes  to- 
day as  well,"  and  he  repeated  the  name  in  a  singularly 
soft,  slow,  and  almost  caressing  voice.  "Lionel  Gal- 
lon," he  said. 

And  at  once  Pamela  was  desperately  afraid.  It 
needed  just  that  name  uttered  in  just  that  way  to 
explain  to  her  completely  the  emotion  which  Tony  so 
resolutely  controlled.  She  looked  at  him  aghast.  She 
had  planned  to  bring  back  Tony  to  Millie  and  his  home. 
The  Tony  Stretton  whom  she  had  known  of  old,  the 
ai  321 


THE   TRUANTS 

good-natured,  kindly  man  who  loved  his  wife,  whom 
all  men  liked  and  none  feared.  And  lo!  she  had 
brought  back  a  stranger.  And  the  stranger  was  dan- 
gerous. He  was  thrilling  with  anger,  he  was  antici- 
pating his  meeting  with  Lionel  Gallon  with  a  relish 
which,  to  Pamela,  was  dreadful. 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  eagerly.  "Mr.  Gallon  has 
been  here  all  this  while,  and  Millie  only  comes  to-day." 

"Gallon  has  been  waiting  for  her,  then?"  he  asked, 
implacably.  . 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Pamela  exclaimed,  in  despair. 
"I  have  not  spoken  to  him.     How  should  I  know?" 

"Yet  you  have  no  doubts." 

"Well,  then,  no,"  she  said,  "I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  is  waiting  here  for  Millie.  But  she  only  arrives  to- 
day. They  have  not  met  until  to-day.  That  is  why 
I  sent  the  telegram." 

Tony  nodded  his  head. 

"So  that  I  might  be  present  at  the  meeting?" 

And  Pamela  could  have  cried  out  aloud.  She  had 
not  thought,  she  had  not  foreseen.  She  had  fixed  all 
her  hopes  on  saving  Millie.  Set  upon  that,  she  had 
not  understood  that  other  and  dreadful  consequences 
might  ensue.  These  consequences  were  vivid  enough 
before  her  eyes  now.  All  three  would  meet — Tony, 
Millie,  and  Lionel  Gallon.  What  would  follow?  What 
might  not  follow?  Pamela  closed  her  eyes.  Her 
heart  sank;  she  felt  faint  at  the  thought  of  what  she 
had  so  blindly  brought  about. 

"Tony!"  she  exclaimed.  She  wrung  her  hands  to- 
gether, pleading  with  him  in  short  and  broken  sen- 
tences. "Don't  think  of  him!  .  .  .Think  of  MilHe. 
You  can  gain  her  back!  ...  I  am  very  sure.  ...  I  wrote 
that  to  you,  didn't  I?  .  .  .  Mr.  Gallon.  ...  It  is  not 

322 


THE  TRUANTS 

worth  while.  ...  He  is  of  no  account.  .  .  .  Millie  was 
lonely,  that  was  all.  .  .  .  There  would  be  a  scandal,  at 
the  best.  ..."     And  Tony  laughed  harshly. 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  worth  while,"  she  cried  again,  piteous- 
ly;  and  yet  again,  "It  is  not  worth  while." 

"Yet  I  am  anxious  to  meet  him,"  said  Tony. 

Suddenly  Pamela  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  the 
door,  and  for  a  moment  hope  brightened  on  her  face. 
But  Stretton  understood  the  look  and  replied  to  it. 

"No,  Warrisden  is  not  here.  I  left  him  behind  with 
our  luggage  at  Monte  Carlo." 

"Why  did  he  stay?"  cried  Pamela,  as  again  her 
hopes  fell. 

"  He  could  hardly  refuse.  This  is  my  affair,  not  his. 
I  claimed  to-night.  He  will  come  to  you,  no  doubt, 
to-morrow." 

"You  meant  him  to  stay  behind,  then?" 

"  I  meant  to  see  you  alone,"  said  Tony;  and  Pamela 
dared  question  him  no  more,  though  the  questions 
thronged  in  her  mind  and  tortured  her.     Was  it  only 
because  he  wished  to  see  her  alone  that  he  left  Warris- 
den behind  ?     Was  it  not  also  so  that  he  might  not  be 
hampered  afterwards?     Was  it  only  so  that  another 
might  not  know  of  the  trouble  between  himself  and 
Millie  ?     Or  was  it  not  so  that  another  might  not  be  on 
hand  to  hinder  him  from  exacting  retribution  ?     Pam- 
ela was  appalled.     Tony  was  angry  —  yes,  that  was 
natural  enough.     She  would  not  have  felt  half  her 
present  distress  if  he  had  shown  his  passion  in  tem- 
pestuous words,  if  he  had  threatened,  if  he  had  raved. 
But  there  was  so  much  deliberation  in  his  anger,  he 
had  it  so  completely  in  control;  it  was  an  instrument 
which  he  meant  to  use,  not  a  fever  which  might  master 
him  for  a  moment  and  let  him  go. 

323 


THE   TRUANTS 

"You  are  so  changed,"  she  cried.  "  I  did  not  think 
of  that  when  I  wrote  to  you.  But,  of  course,  these 
years  and  the  Foreign  Legion  could  not  but  change 
you." 

She  moved  away,  and  sat  down  holding  her  head 
between  her  hands.  Stretton  did  not  answer  her 
words  in  any  way.  He  moved  towards  her,  and 
asked, 

"Is  Gallon,  too,  at  Eze?" 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  raising  her  head,  thankful,  at 
last,  that  here  was  some  small  point  on  which  she 
could  attenuate  his  suspicions.  "You  are  making 
too  much  of  the  trouble." 

"Yet  you  wrote  the  letter  to  me.  You  also  sent 
the  telegram.  You  sent  me  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  without  good  reason."  And  Pamela  dropped 
her  eyes  again  from  his  face. 

"If  Gallon  is  not  at  Eze,"  he  insisted,  "he  is  close 
by!" 

Pamela  did  not  answer.  She  sat  trying  to  compose 
her  thoughts.  Suppose  that  she  refused  to  answer, 
Tony  would  go  to  Eze.  He  might  find  Millie  and 
Gallon  there.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  unlikely  that 
he  would.  Pamela  had  seen  that  quiet,  solitary  res- 
taurant by  the  sea  where  Gallon  lodged.  It  was  there 
that  they  would  be,  she  had  no  doubt. 

"Where  is  Gallon?"  asked  Tony.  "Where  does  he 
stay?" 

Pamela  closed  her  ears  to  the  question,  working  still 
at  the  stern  problem  of  her  answer.  If  she  refused  to 
tell  him  what  he  asked,  Millie  and  Gallon  might  escape 
for  to-night.  That  was  possible.  But,  then,  to-mor- 
row would  come.  Tony  must  meet  them  to-morrow 
in  any  case,  and  to-morrow  he  might  be  too  late. 

324 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered,  and  she  described 
the  place.  And  in  another  minute  she  was  alone. 
She  heard  the  front  door  close,  she  heard  Tony's  step 
upon  the  gravel  of  the  garden  path,  and  then  all  was 
silent.  She  sat  holding  her  throbbing  temples  in  her 
hands.  Visions  rose  before  her  eyes,  and  her  fear 
made  them  extraordinarily  luminous  and  vivid.  She 
saw  that  broad,  quiet  terrace  over  the  sea  where  she 
had  lunched,  the  lonely  restaurant,  the  windows  of 
that  suite  of  rooms  open  onto  the  terrace.  A  broad 
column  of  light  streamed  out  from  the  window  in  her 
vision.  She  could  almost  hear  voices  and  the  sound 
of  laughter,  she  imagined  the  laughter  all  struck  dumb, 
and  thereafter  a  cry  of  horror  stabbing  the  night.  The 
very  silence  of  the  villa  became  a  torture  to  her.  She 
rose  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  room.  If  she 
could  only  have  reached  Warrisden!  But  she  did  not 
even  know  to  which  hotel  in  all  the  hotels  of  Monte 
Carlo  he  had  gone.  Tony  might  have  told  her  that, 
had  she  kept  her  wits  about  her  and  put  the  question 
with  discretion.  But  she  had  not.  She  had  no  doubt 
that  Stretton  had  purposely  left  him  behind.  Tony 
wished  for  no  restraining  hand  when  at  last  he  came 
face  to  face  with  Lionel  Gallon.  She  sat  down  and 
tried  to  reason  out  what  would  happen.  Tony  would 
go  first  to  Eze.  Would  he  find  Millie  there?  Perhaps. 
Most  likely  he  would  not.  He  would  go  on  then  to  the 
restaurant  on  the  Corniche  road.  But  he  would  have 
wasted  some  time.  It  might  be  only  a  little  time, 
still,  however  short  it  was,  what  was  waste  of  time  to 
Tony  might  be  gain  of  time  to  her — if  only  she  could 
find  a  messenger. 

Suddenly  she  stood  up.     There  was  a  messenger, 
under  her  very  hand.     She  scribbled  a  note  to  Lionel 

325 


THE   TRUANTS 

Gallon,  hardly  knowing  what  she  wrote.  She  bade 
him  go  the  instant  when  he  received  it,  go  at  all  costs 
without  a  moment's  delay.  Then,  taking  the  note  in 
her  hand,  she  ran  from  the  villa  down  the  road  to 
Roquebrune. 


XXX 
H.   GIRAUD   AGAIN 

THE  dusk  was  deepening  quickly  into  darkness. 
As  she  ran  down  the  open  stretch  of  hill-side 
between  her  villa  and  the  little  town,  she  saw  the 
lights  blaze  out  upon  the  terrace  of  Monte  Carlo.  Far 
below  her  upon  her  right  they  shone  Hke  great  opals, 
each  with  a  heart  of  fire.  Pamela  stopped  for  a  second 
to  regain  her  breath  before  she  reached  Roquebrune. 
The  sudden  brightness  of  those  lights  carried  her 
thoughts  backward  to  the  years  when  the  height  of 
trouble  for  her  had  been  the  sickness  of  a  favorite 
horse,  and  all  her  life  was  an  eager  expectation.  On 
so  many  evenings  she  had  seen  those  lights  flash  out 
through  the  gathering  night  while  she  had  sat  talking 
in  her  garden  with  the  little  school-master  whom  she 
was  now  to  revisit.  To  both  of  them  those  lights  had 
been  a  parable.  They  had  glowed  in  friendliness  and 
promise  —  thus  she  had  read  the  parable  —  out  of  a 
great,  bright,  gay  world  of  men  and  women,  upon  a 
cool,  twilit  garden  of  youth  and  ignorance.  She 
thought  of  what  had  come  in  place  of  all  that  imag- 
ined gayety.  To  the  school-master,  disappointment  and 
degradation;  while,  as  for  herself,  she  felt  very  lonely 
upon  this  evening.  "The  world  is  a  place  of  great 
sadness."  Thus  had  M.  Giraud  spoken  when  Pamela 
had  returned  to  Roquebrune  from  her  first  season  in 
London,  and  the  words  now  came  back  to  her  again. 

327 


THE   TRUANTS 

She  ran  on  through  the  narrow  streets  of  Roque- 
brune,  her  white  frock  showing  in  the  Hght  from  the 
shops  and  windows.  She  wore  no  hat  upon  her  head, 
and  more  than  one  of  the  people  in  the  street  called  to 
her  as  she  passed  and  asked  her  whether  she  needed 
help.  Help,  indeed,  she  did  need,  but  not  from  them. 
She  came  to  the  tiny  square  whence  the  steps  led 
down  to  the  station.  On  the  west  side  of  the  square 
stood  the  school-house,  and,  close  by,  the  little  house 
of  the  school-master.  A  light  burned  in  a  window  of 
the  ground  floor.  Pamela  knocked  loudly  upon  the 
door.  She  heard  a  chair  grate  upon  the  floor-boards. 
She  knocked  again,  and  the  door  was  opened.  It  was 
the  school-master  himself  who  opened  it. 

"M.  Giraud!"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  her  breath 
quickly.  The  school-master  leaned  forward  and  stared 
at  the  white  figure  which  stood  in  the  darkness  just 
outside  his  porch ;  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"Let  me  in!"  cried  Pamela;  and  he  made  a  move- 
ment as  though  to  bar  the  way.  But  she  slipped 
quickly  past  him  into  the  room.  He  closed  the  door 
slowly  and  followed  her. 

The  room  was  bare.  A  deal  table,  a  chair  or  two, 
and  a  few  tattered  books  on  a  hanging  bookshelf  made 
up  all  its  furniture.  Pamela  leaned  against  the  wall 
with  adiand  to  her  heart.  M.  Giraud  saw  her  clearly 
now.  She  stood  only  a  few  feet  from  him  in  the  light 
of  the  room.     She  was  in  distress ;  yet  he  spoke  harshly. 

"Why  have  you  come?"  he  cried;  and  she  answered, 
piteously,  "I  want  your  help." 

At  that  a  flame  of  anger  kindled  within  him.  He 
saw  her  again,  after  all  this  long  time  of  her  absence — 
her  whose  equal  he  had  never  spoken  with.  Her 
dark  hair,  her  eyes,  the  pure  outline  of  her  face,  her 

328 


THE   TRUANTS 

tall,  slim  figure,  the  broad  forehead — all  the  delicacy 
and  beauty  of  her— was  a  torture  to  him.  The  sound 
of  her  voice,  with  its  remembered  accents,  hurt  him 
as  he  had  thought  nothing  could  ever  hurt  him  again. 

"Really!"  he  cried,  in  exasperation.  "You  want 
help,  so  you  come  to  me.  Without  that  need  would 
you  have  come?  No,  indeed.  You  are  a  woman. 
Get  your  fine  friends  to  help  you!" 

There  were  other  follies  upon  his  tongue,  but  he 
never  spoke  them.  He  looked  at  Pamela,  and  came 
to  a  stop. 

Pamela  had  entered  the  cottage  bent  with  a  single 
mind  upon  her  purpose — to  avert  a  catastrophe  at 
the  little  restaurant  on  the  Corniche  road.  But  M. 
Giraud  was  before  her,  face  to  face  with  her,  as  she 
was  face  to  face  with  him.  She  saw  him  clearly  in  the 
light  as  he  saw  her;  and  she  was  shocked.  The  cure 
had  prepared  her  for  a  change  in  her  old  comrade, 
but  not  for  so  complete  a  disfigurement.  The  wine-shop 
had  written  its  sordid  story  too  legibly  upon  his 
features.  His  face  was  bloated  and  red,  the  veins 
stood  out  upon  the  cheeks  and  the  nose  like  threads 
of  purple;  his  eyes  were  yellow  and  unwholesome.  M. 
Giraud  had  grown  stout  in  body,  too;  and  his  dress 
was  slovenly  and  in  disrepair.  He  was  an  image  of 
degradation  and  neglect.  Pamela  was  shocked,  and 
betrayed  the  shock.  She  almost  shrank  from  him  at 
the  first ;  there  was  almost  upon  her  face  an  expression 
of  aversion  and  disgust.  But  sorrow  drove  the  aver- 
sion away,  and  immediately  her  eyes  were  full  of  pity; 
and  these  swift  changes  M.  Giraud  saw  and  understood. 

She  was  still  his  only  window  on  the  outside  world. 
That  was  the  trouble.  By  her  expression  he  read  his 
own  decline  more  surely  than  in  his  mirror.    Through 

329 


THE   TRUANTS 

her  he  saw  the  world;  through  her,  too,  he  saw  what 
manner  of  figure  he  presented  to  the  world.  Never 
had  he  realized  how  far  he  had  sunk  until  this  mo- 
ment. He  saw,  as  in  a  picture,  the  young  school-master 
of  the  other  days  who  had  read  French  with  the  pupil, 
who  was  more  his  teacher  than  his  pupil,  upon  the 
garden  terrace  of  the  Villa  Pontignard  —  a  youth  full 
of  dreams,  which  were  vain,  no  doubt,  but  not  ignoble. 
There  was  a  trifle  of  achievement,  too.  For  even  now 
one  of  the  tattered  books  upon  his  shelf  was  a  copy  of 
his  brochure  on  Roquebrune  and  the  Upper  Comiche 
road.  With  perseverance,  with  faith — he  understood 
it  in  a  flash — he  might  have  found,  here,  at  Roque- 
brune, a  satisfaction  for  those  ambitions  which  had 
so  tortured  him.  There  was  a  field  here  for  the  his- 
torian had  he  chosen  to  seize  on  it.  Fame  might 
have  come  to  him,  though  he  never  visited  the  great 
cities  and  the  crowded  streets.  So  he  thought,  and 
then  he  realized  what  he  had  become.  It  was  true 
he  had  suffered  great  unhappiness.  Yet  so  had  she — 
Pamela  Mardale;  and  she  had  not  fallen  from  her 
pedestal.  Here  shame  seized  upon  him.  He  lowered 
his  eyes  from  her  face. 

"Help!"  he  stammered.  "You  ask  me  to  help 
you?     Look  at  me!     I  can  give  you  no  help!" 

He  suddenly  broke  off.  He  sat  down  at  the  table, 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Pamela  crossed  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  very  gently 
upon  his  shoulder.     She  spoke  very  gently,  too. 

"Oh  yes,  you  can,"  she  said. 

He  drew  away  from  her,  but  she  would  not  be  re- 
pulsed. 

"You  should  never  have  come  to  me  at  all,"  he 
sobbed.     "Oh,  how  I  hate  that  you  should  see  me 

330 


THE  TRUANTS 

like  this.  Why  did  you  come?  I  did  not  mean  you 
to  see  me.  You  must  have  known  that!  You  must 
have  known,  too,  why.  It  was  not  kind  of  you, 
mademoiselle.     No,  it  was  not  kind!" 

"Yet  I  am  glad  that  I  came,"  said  Pamela.  "I 
came  thinking  of  myself,  it  is  true — my  need  is  so  very 
great ;  but  now  I  see  your  need  is  as  great  as  mine.  I 
ask  you  to  rise  up  and  help  me." 

"No,  leave  me  alone!"  he  cried.  And  she  answered, 
gently,  "I  will  not." 

M.  Giraud  grew  quiet.  He  pressed  his  handker- 
chief to  his  eyes,  and  stood  up. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  said.  "I  have  behaved  like  a 
child ;  but  you  would  forgive  me  if  you  .knew  how  I 
have  waited  and  waited  for  you  to  come  back.  But 
you  never  did.  Each  summer  I  said,  'She  will  return 
in  the  winter!'  And  the  winter  came,  and  I  said, 
'She  will  come  in  the  spring.'  But  neither  in  winter 
nor  in  the  spring  did  you  return  to  Roquebrune.  I  have 
needed  you  so  badly  all  these  years." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  Pamela;  "I  am  very  sorry." 
She  did  not  reproach  herself  at  all.  She  could  not 
see,  indeed,  that  she  was  to  blame.  But  she  was  none 
the  less  distressed.  Giraud's  exhibition  of  grief  was  so 
utterly  unfamiliar  to  her  that  she  felt  awkward  and 
helpless  in  face  of  it.  He  was  yet  further  disfigured 
now  by  the  traces  of  weeping;  his  eyes  were  swollen 
and  red.  There  was  something  grotesque  in  the  aspect 
of  this  drink-swollen  face,  all  convulsed  with  sorrow. 
Nothing  could  well  be  less  in  sympathy  with  Pamela's 
nature  than  Giraud's  outburst  and  display  of  tears;  for 
she  was  herself  reticent  and  proud.  She  held  her  head 
high  as  she  walked  through  the  world,  mistress  alike  of 
her  sorrows  and  her  joys.     But  Mr.  Mudge  had  spoken 

331 


THE    TRUANTS 

the  truth  when  he  had  called  upon  her  in  Leicestershire. 
Imagination  had  come  to  her  of  late.  She  was  able 
to  understand  the  other  point  of  view — to  appreciate 
that  there  were  other  characters  than  hers  which  must 
needs  fulfil  themselves  in  ways  which  were  not  hers. 
She  put  herself  now  in  M.  Giraud's  place.  She  imag- 
ined him  waiting  and  waiting  at  Roquebrune,  with  his 
one  window  on  the  outside  world  closed  and  shuttered 
— a  man  in  a  darkened  room  who  most  passionately 
desired  the  air  without.  She  said,  with  a  trace  of  hesi- 
tation : 

"You  say  you  have  needed  me  very  much?" 

"Oh,  have  I  not?"  exclaimed  Giraud;  and  the  very 
weariness  of  his  voice  would  have  convinced  her,  had 
she  needed  conviction.  It  seemed  to  express  the  dila- 
tory passage  of  the  years  during  which  he  had  looked 
for  her  coming,  and  had  looked  in  vain. 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  me,"  she  went  on.  "I  was 
once  told  that  to  be  needed  by  those  whom  one  needs 
is  a  great  comfort.  I  thought  of  the  saying  at  the  time, 
and  I  thought  that  it  was  a  true  one.  Afterwards" — 
she  began  to  speak  slowly,  carefully  selecting  her 
words — "it  happened  that  in  my  own  experience  I 
proved  it  to  be  true,  at  all  events  for  me.  Is  it  true 
for  you,  also?  Think  well.  If  it  is  not  true  I  will  go 
away  as  you  bade  me  at  the  beginning;  but  if  it  is  true 
— why,  then  I  may  be  of  some  little  help  to  you,  and 
you  will  be  certainly  a  great  help  to  me,  for  I  need  you 
very  surely." 

M.  Giraud  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  little  while. 
Then  he  answered  her  with  simplicity,  and  so,  for  the 
first  time  during  this  interview,  wore  the  proper  dignity 
of  a  man. 

"  Yes,  I  will  help  you,"  he  said.     "  What  can  I  do  ?" 

332 


THE   TRUANTS 

She  held  out  the  letter  which  she  had  written  to 
Lionel  Gallon.  She  bade  him  carry  it  with  the  best 
speed  he  could  to  its  destination. 

"  Lose  no  time!"  she  implored.  "  I  am  not  sure  but 
it  may  be  that  one  man's  life,  and  the  happiness  of  a 
man  and  a  woman  besides,  all  hang  upon  its  quick 
receipt." 

M.  Giraud  took  his  hat  from  the  wall  and  went  to 
the  door.  At  the  door  he  paused,  and,  standing  thus, 
with  an  averted  face,  he  said  in  a  whisper,  recalling 
the  words  she  had  lately  spoken : 

"There  is  one,  then,  whom  you  need?  You  are  no 
longer  lonely  in  your  thoughts?  I  should  like  to 
know." 

"Yes,"  Pamela  answered,  gently;  "I  am  no  longer 
lonely  in  my  thoughts." 

"And  you  are  happy?"  he  continued.  "You  were 
not  happy  when  you  were  at  Roquebrune  last.  I 
should  like  to  know  that  you,  at  all  events,  are  happy 
now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pamela.  In  the  presence  of  his  distress 
she  rather  shrank  from  acknowledging  the  change 
which  had  come  over  her.  It  seemed  cruel;  yet  he 
clearly  wished  to  know.  He  clearly  would  be  the  hap- 
pier for  knowing.     "Yes,"  she  said;  "I  am  happy." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  M.  Giraud,  in  a  low  voice; 
"I  am  very  glad."  And  he  went  rather  quickly  out 
by  the  door. 


XXXI 
AT   THE   RESERVE 

TONY  STRETTON  walked  quickly  down  from 
the  Villa  Pontignard  to  the  station.  There  he 
learned  that  an  hour  must  elapse  before  a  train  to  Eze 
was  due.  Inaction  was  at  this  moment  intolerable 
to  him.  Even  though  he  should  get  to  Eze  not  a  min- 
ute the  sooner,  he  must  hurry  upon  his  way.  He 
could  not  wait  upon  this  platform  for  an  hour,  suspense 
so  tortured  him.  He  went  out  upon  the  road  and  be- 
gan to  run.  He  ran  very  quickly.  The  road  turned 
sharply  round  the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  and  Stretton  saw 
in  front  of  him  the  lights  of  Monte  Carlo.  They  were 
bunched  in  great  white  clusters,  they  were  strung  in 
festoons  about  the  square  and  the  streets.  They  made 
a  golden  crescent  about  the  dark,  quiet  waters  of  the 
bay.  Looking  down  from  this  shoulder  of  the  hill 
upon  the  town  at  such  an  hour  one  seems  to  be  looking 
upon  a  town  of  fairy-land ;  one  expects  a  sweet  and  deli- 
cate music  to  float  upward  from  its  houses  and  charm 
the  ears.  Tony's  one  thought  was  that  beyond  that 
place  of  lights  lay  Eze.  He  came  to  an  electric  tram 
which  was  on  point  of  starting.  He  entered  it,  and  it 
rattled  him  quickly  down  the  hill. 

At  Monte  Carlo  he  sprang  into  the  first  carriage 
which  he  saw  waiting  for  a  fare,  and  bade  the  coach- 
man drive  him  quickly  out  to  Eze.  The  night  had 
come;  above  his  head  the  stars  shone  very  brightly 

334 


THE   TRUANTS 

from  a  dark  sky  of  velvet.  The  carriage  passed  out  of 
the  town;  the  villas  grew  more  scarce;  the  open  road 
glimmered  ahead  of  him  a  riband  of  white;  the  sea 
murmured  languorously  upon  the  shore. 

At  this  moment,  in  the  lonely  restaurant  towards 
which  Tony  was  driving  in  such  haste,  Lionel  Gallon 
and  Millie  Stretton  were  sitting  down  to  dinner.  The 
table  was  laid  in  the  small,  daintily  furnished  room 
which  opened  onto  the  terrace.  The  windows  stood 
wide,  and  the  lazy  murmur  of  the  waves  entered  in. 
The  white  cloth  shone  with  silver;  a  great  bowl  of  roses 
stood  in  the  centre  and  delicately  perfumed  the  air. 
Thither  Millie  had  come  in  fulfilment  of  that  promise 
made  on  a  midnight  of  early  spring  in  Regent's  Park. 
The  color  burned  prettily  on  her  cheeks,  she  had  dressed 
herself  in  a  pink  gown  of  lace,  jewels  shone  on  her  arms 
and  at  her  neck.  She  was,  perhaps,  a  little  feverish  in 
her  gayety,  her  laughter  was  perhaps  a  little  overloud. 
Indeed,  every  now  and  then  her  heart  sank  in  fear 
within  her,  and  she  wished  herself  far  away.  But  here 
Lionel  Gallon  was  at  his  ease.  He  knew  the  methods 
by  which  victory  was  to  be  won.  There  was  no  sug- 
gestion of  triumph  in  his  manner.  He  was  consider- 
ate and  most  deferential,  and  with  no  more  than  a 
hint  of  passion  in  the  deference. 

"You  have  come,"  he  said.  His  eyes  rested  upon 
hers,  and  he  left  them  to  express  his  gratitude.  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  gently  took  the  cloak 
from  her  shoulders.  "You  have  had  a  long  journey. 
But  you  are  not  tired."  He  placed  her  chair  for  her  at 
the  table  and  sat  opposite.  He  saw  that  she  was  un- 
easy.    He  spoke  no  word  which  might  alarm  her. 

Meanwhile  Tony  was  drawing  nearer.  He  reached 
the  hotel  at  Eze,  and  drove  in  at  the  gate  at  the  door. 

335 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Is  Lady  Stretton  in  the  hotel?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir.  Her  ladyship  went  out  to  dinner  nearly 
an  hour  ago." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tony.  "She  arrived  this  after- 
noon, I  think?" 

"Yes,  sir.  What  name  shall  I  give  when  she  re- 
turns?" 

"No  name,"  said  Tony.  And  he  ordered  his  coach- 
man to  drive  back  to  the  road. 

When  he  had  reached  it  he  directed  the  man  again. 

"Towards  Beaulieu,"  he  said;  and  in  a  little  while, 
on  his  left  hand,  below  the  level  of  the  road,  he  saw  the 
lights  of  the  Reserve.  He  stopped  at  the  gate,  dis- 
missed his  carriage,  and  walked  down  the  winding 
drive  to  the  door.  He  walked  into  the  restaurant.  It 
was  empty.     A  waiter  came  forward  to  him. 

"I  wish  you  to  take  me  at  once  to  Mr.  Gallon,"  he 
said.  He  spoke  in  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  voice.  But 
the  waiter  nevertheless  hesitated.  Tony  wore  the 
clothes  in  which  he  had  travelled  to  Roquebrune. 
He  was  covered  with  dust,  his  face  was  haggard  and 
stern.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  dainty 
little  room  of  lights  and  flowers  and  shining  silver 
and  the  smartly  dressed  couple  who  were  dining  there. 
The  waiter  guessed  that  his  irruption  would  be  alto- 
gether inconvenient. 

"Mr.  Gallon?"  he  stammered.     "He  has  gone  out." 

Tony  heard  the  rattle  of  a  metal  cover  upon  a  dish. 
He  looked  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  came — 
he  looked  to  the  right-hand  side  of  the  restaurant.  A 
door  stood  open  there,  and  in  the  passage  beyond  the 
door  he  saw  a  waiter  pass  carrying  the  dish.  More- 
over, the  man  who  had  spoken  to  him  made  yet  an- 
other mistake.     He  noticed  the  direction  of  Tony's 


THE  TRUANTS 

glance,  and  he  made  a  quick  movement  as  though  to 
bar  that  passage. 

"He  is  here,"  said  Tony;  and  he  thrust  the  waiter 
aside.  He  crossed  the  restaurant  quickly  and  entered 
the  passage.  The  passage  ran  parallel  to  the  restau- 
rant; and,  at  the  end  towards  the  terrace,  there  was 
another  door  upon  the  opposite  side.  The  waiter  with 
the  dish  had  his  hand  upon  the  door-handle,  but  he 
turned  at  the  sound  of  Stretton's  step.  He,  too,  no- 
ticed the  disorder  of  Tony's  dress.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  man  in  the  restaurant  shouted  in  a  warning 
voice: 

"Jules!" 

Jules  stood  in  front  of  the  door. 

"Monsieur,  this  room  is  private,"  said  he. 

"Yet  I  will  take  the  liberty  to  intrude,"  said  Tony, 
quietly. 

From  behind  the  door  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
man's  voice  which  Tony  did  not  know.  He  had,  in- 
deed, never  heard  it  before.  Then  a  woman's  laugh 
rang  out;  and  the  sound  of  it  angered  Tony  beyond 
endurance.  He  recognized  it  beyond  the  possibility 
of  mistake.  It  was  his  wife  who  was  laughing  so  gayly 
there  behind  the  closed  door.  He  thought  of  the  years 
he  had  spent  in  the  determination  to  regain  his  wife's 
esteem,  to  free  himself  from  her  contempt.  For  the 
moment  he  could  have  laughed  bitterly  at  his  per- 
sistence as  at  some  egregious  folly.  It  seemed  all 
waste — waste  of  time,  waste  of  endeavor,  waste  of 
suffering.  She  was  laughing!  And  with  Lionel  Gal- 
lon for  her  companion!  The  cold,  black  nights  of  the 
North  Sea  and  its  gales;  the  arid  sands  of  the  Sahara, 
all  his  long  service  for  her  ending  in  that  crowning  act 
of  desertion  —  the  story  was  clear  in  his  mind  from 

337 


THE   TRUANTS 

beginning  to  end,  detailed  and  complete.  And  she 
was  laughing  in  there  with  Lionel  Gallon!  Her  laugh- 
ter was  to  him  as  some  biting  epigram  epitomizing  the 
way  in  which  she  had  spent  the  years  of  his  absence. 
His  anger  got  the  better  of  his  self-control. 

"Stand  away!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  savage  voice  to 
the  waiter.  And  since  the  man  did  not  instantly  move, 
he  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  dragged  him  from 
the  door. 

"Monsieur!"  the  man  cried  aloud,  in  a  frightened 
voice,  and  the  dish  which  he  was  carrying  fell  with  a 
clatter  onto  the  floor.  Inside  the  room  the  laughter 
suddenly  ceased.  Tony  listened  for  a  second.  He 
could  not  hear  even  a  whisper.  There  was  complete 
silence.  He  smiled  rather  grimly  to  himself;  he  was 
thinking  that  this,  at  all  events,  was  not  the  silence 
of  contempt. 

Could  he  have  seen  through  the  door  into  the  room 
he  would  have  been  yet  more  convinced.  All  the 
gayety  vanished  in  an  instant  from  Millie's  face.  She 
was  sitting  opposite  the  door;  she  sat  and  stared  at  it 
in  terror.  The  blood  ebbed  from  her  cheeks,  leaving 
them  as  white  as  paper. 

"Monsieur!"  she  repeated,  in  so  low  a  whisper  that 
even  Gallon  on  the  other  side  of  the  small  table  hardly 
heard  the  word.  Her  lips  were  dr>',  and  she  moistened 
them.  "Monsieur!"  she  whispered  again,  and  the 
whisper  was  a  question.  She  had  no  definite  suspicion 
who  "Monsieur"  was;  she  did  not  define  him  as  her 
husband.  She  only  understood  that  somehow  she 
was  trapped.  The  sudden  clatter  of  the  dish  upon  the 
floor,  the  loudness  of  the  waiter's  cry,  which  was  not 
in  mere  protest,  but  also  a  cry  of  fear,  terrified  her; 
they   implied   violence.     She   was  trapped.     She   sat 

338 


THE   TRUANTS 

paralyzed  upon  her  chair,  staring  across  the  table  over 
Gallon's  shoulder  at  the  door.  Gallon  meanwhile  said 
not  a  word.  He  had  been  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  and  he  twisted  round  in  his  chair.  To  both  of 
them  it  seemed  ages  before  the  handle  was  turned. 
Yet  so  short  was  the  interval  of  time  that  they  could 
hardly  have  reached  the  terrace  through  the  open  win- 
dow had  they  sprung  up  at  the  first  sound  of  disturb- 
ance. 

Thus  they  were  sitting,  silent  and  motionless,  when 
the  door  was  pushed  open  and  Tony  stood  in  the 
door-way.  At  the  sight  of  him  Millie  uttered  one  loud 
scream,  and  clapped  her  hands  over  her  face.  Gallon, 
on  the  other  hand,  started  up  onto  his  feet.  As  he 
did  so  he  upset  his  wineglass  over  the  table-cloth;  it 
fell  and  splintered  on  the  polished  floor.  He  turned 
towards  the  intruder  who  so  roughly  forced  his  way 
into  the  room.  The  eyes  of  that  intruder  took  no  ac- 
count of  him;  they  were  fixed  upon  Millie  Stretton,  as 
she  sat  cowering  at  the  table  with  her  hands  before 
her  face. 

"What  do  you  want?"  cried  Gallon;  "you  have  no 
right  here!" 

"I  have  every  right  here,"  said  Tony;  "that  is  my 
wife!" 

It  was  still  his  wife  at  whom  he  looked,  not  at  all 
towards  Gallon.  Gallon  was  startled  out  of  his  wits. 
Detection  he  had  always  feared ;  he  had  sought  to 
guard  against  it  by  the  use  of  every  precaution  known 
to  his  devious  strategy.  But  it  was  detection  by 
Pamela  Mardale  and  her  friends,  who  had  once  already 
laid  him  by  the  heels;  the  husband  had  never  entered 
into  his  calculations.  He  had  accepted  without  ques- 
tion Millie's  version  of  the  husband — he  was  the  man 

339 


THE    TRUANTS 

who  did  not  care.  In  some  part  of  the  world  he  wan- 
dered, but  where  no  one  knew;  cut  off  from  all  his 
friends  —  indifferent,  neglectful,  and  a  fool.  Even 
now  he  could  not  believe.  This  might  be  some  new 
trick  of  Pamela  Mardale's. 

"Your  wife!"  he  exclaimed.     "That  is  not  true." 

"Not  true?"  cried  Tony,  in  a  terrible  voice.  He 
stretched  out  his  arm  and  pointed  towards  Millie. 
"Look!" 

Millie  flinched  as  though  she  feared  a  blow.  She 
dropped  her  head  yet  lower.  She  held  her  fingers  over 
her  eyelids,  closing  them  tightly.  She  had  looked 
once  at  Tony's  face,  she  dared  not  look  again.  She 
sat  in  darkness,  trembling.  One  question  was  in  her 
mind.  "Would  he  kill  her?"  Gallon  looked  at  her 
as  he  was  bidden.  Millie  was  wont  to  speak  of  her 
husband  with  indifference  and  a  suggestion  of  scorn. 
Yet  it  was  her  manifest  terror  which  now  convinced 
Gallon  that  the  husband  was  indeed  before  him.  Here 
the  man  was,  sprung  suddenly  out  of  the  dark  upon 
him,  not  neglectful,  for  he  had  the  look  of  one  who 
has  travelled  from  afar  very  quickly,  and  slept  but 
little  on  the  way;  not  indifferent,  for  he  was  white 
with  anger  and  his  eyes  were  aflame.  Gallon  cursed  the 
luck  which  had  for  a  second  time  brought  him  into 
such  ill  straits.  He  measured  himself  with  Tony,  and 
knew  in  the  instant  he  was  no  match  for  him.  There 
was  a  man,  tired,  no  doubt,  and  worn,  but  hard  as  iron, 
supple  of  muscle  and  limb,  and  finely  trained  to  the  last 
superfluous  ounce  of  flesh;  while  he  himself  was  soft 
with  luxury  and  good  living.     He  sought  to  temporize. 

"That  is  no  proof,"  said  he.  "Any  woman  might 
be  startled — "  And  Tony  broke  fiercely  in  upon  his 
stammered  argument: 

340 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Go  out,"  he  cried,  "and  wait  for  me!" 

The  door  was  still  open.  Outside  it,  in  the  passage, 
the  waiters  were  clustered,  listening.  Inside  the  room 
Millie  was  listening.  The  order,  roughly  given,  was 
just  one  which  Gallon  for  very  shame  could  not  obey. 
He  would  have  liked  to  obey  it,  for  confronting  hus- 
bands was  never  to  his  liking;  all  his  art  lay  in  eluding 
them. 

"Go  out!"  Tony  repeated,  and  took  a  step  for- 
ward. Gallon  could  not  cut  so  poor  a  figure  as  to  slink 
from  the  room  like  a  whipped  school  -  boy.  Yet  it 
would  have  gone  better  with  him  had  he  eaten  his  look 
and  gone. 

"It  would  not  be  safe  to  leave  you,"  he  babbled. 
And  suddenly  Tony  caught  him  by  the  throat,  drew 
him  forward,  and  then  flung  him  violently  away. 

Gallon  reeled  back  through  the  open  windows,  slip- 
ped and  fell  to  his  full  length  upon  the  terrace.  His 
head  struck  the  stone  flags  with  a  horrible  sound.  He 
lay  quite  still  in  the  strong  light  which  poured  from 
the  room;  his  eyes  were  closed,  his  face  quite  bloodless. 
It  was  his  business,  as  Mudge  had  said,  to  fight  among 
the  teacups. 

Tony  made  no  further  movement  towards  him.  The 
waiters  went  out  onto  the  terrace  and  lifted  him  up 
and  carried  him  within.  Then  Tony  turned  towards 
his  wife.  She  had  risen  up  from  her  chair  and  over- 
turned it  when  Tony  had  flung  the  interloper  from  the 
room.  She  now  crouched  shuddering  against  the  wall, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  in  terror  upon  her  husband.  As 
he  turned  towards  her  she  uttered  a  sob  and  dropped 
upon  her  knees  before  him.  That  was  the  end  of  all 
her  scorn.  She  kneeled  in  deadly  fear,  admiring  him 
in  the  very  frenzy  of  her  fear.     She  had  no  memory 

341 


THE   TRUANTS 

for  the  contemptuous  letters  which  she  had  written 
and  Tony  had  carried  under  his  pillow  on  the  North 
Sea.  Her  little  deceits  and  plots  and  trickeries  to 
hoodwink  her  friends,  her  little  pretence  of  passion  for 
Lionel  Gallon — she  knew  at  this  moment  that  it  never 
had  been  more  than  a  pretence — these  were  the  mat- 
ters which  now  she  remembered  and  for  which  she 
dreaded  punishment.  She  was  wearing  jewels  that 
night — jewels  which  Tony  had  given  her  in  the  good 
past  days  when  they  lived  together  in  the  house  in 
Deanery  Street.  They  shook  and  glittered  upon  her 
hair,  about  her  neck,  upon  her  bosom  and  her  arms. 
She  kneeled  in  her  delicate  finery  of  lace  and  satin  in 
this  room  of  luxury  and  bright  flowers.  There  was 
no  need  for  Tony  now  to  work  to  re-establish  himself 
in  her  thoughts.  She  reached  out  her  hands  to  him 
in  supplication. 

"I  am  not  guilty,"  she  moaned.     "Tony!     Tony!" 


XXXII 
H U.S. BAND   AND   WIFE 

THE  man  who  was  no  good  had  his  triumph  then. 
Only  triumph  was  not  at  all  in  his  thoughts. 

"Oh,  please!"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "get  up  from 
your  knees;  I  don't  like  to  see  you  there.  It  hurts 
me." 

Millie  raised  her  eyes  to  him  in  wonder.  He  did 
not  mean  to  kill  her,  then.  All  his  violence,  it  seemed, 
was  reserved  for  that  poor  warrior  of  the  drawing- 
rooms  who  had  just  been  carried  away  stunned  and 
bleeding  from  the  terrace.  When  Tony  spoke  to  her 
his  voice  was  rather  that  of  a  man  very  dispirited  and 
sad.  He  had,  indeed,  travelled  through  the  mountains 
of  Morocco  hot  with  anger  against  Gallon,  the  inter- 
loper, but  now  that  he  had  come  face  to  face  again 
with  Millie,  now  that  he  had  heard  her  voice  with  its 
remembered  accents,  the  interloper  seemed  of  little 
account,  a  creature  to  punish  and  be  done  with.  The 
sadness  of  his  voice  penetrated  to  MiUie's  heart.  She 
rose  and  stood  submissively  before  him. 

In  the  passage  outside  the  door  the  waiters  were 
clustered  whispering  together.  Tony  closed  the  door 
and  shut  the  whispers  out.  Upon  the  terrace,  out- 
side the  window,  a  man  was  hesitating  whether  to 
enter  or  no.     Tony  went  to  the  window. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked.     "What  do  you  want?" 

"I  am  Giraud,  the  school-master  of  Roquebrune," 

343 


THE   TRUANTS 

said  the  man,  timidly.     "I  bring  a  letter  from  Made- 
moiselle Mardale." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  Tony;  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  for  the  letter.  He  glanced  at  the  superscription 
and  gave  it  back.  "It  is  not  for  me,"  he  said,  and  M. 
Giraud  went  away  from  the  terrace.  Tony  turned 
back  to  his  wife.  His  mind  was  full  of  a  comparison 
between  the  ways  in  which  he  and  she  had  each  spent 
the  years  of  absence.  For  him  they  had  been  years 
of  endeavor,  persisted  in  through  failure  and  perplexity 
until  success,  but  for  her,  was  reached.  And  how  had 
MilUe  spent  them?  He  looked  at  her  sternly,  and  she 
said  again,  in  a  faltering  voice: 

"I  am  innocent,  Tony." 

And  he  replied: 

"  Could  you  have  said  as  much  to-morrow  had  I  not 
come  back  to-night?" 

Millie  had  no  answer  to  that  question — she  attempted 
none ;  and  it  was  even  at  that  moment  counted  to  her 
credit  by  her  husband.  She  stood  silent  for  a  while, 
and  only  the  murmur  of  the  sea  breaking  upon  the 
beach  filled  the  room.  A  light  wind  breathed  through 
the  open  window,  cool  and  fragrant,  and  made  the 
shaded  candles  flicker  upon  the  table.  Millie  had  her 
one  poor  excuse  to  offer,  and  she  pleaded  it  humbly. 

"I  thought  that  you  had  ceased  to  care  what  be- 
came of  me,"  she  said. 

Tony  looked  sharply  at  her.  She  was  sincere — 
surely  she  was  sincere. 

"You  thought  that?"  he  exclaimed;  and  he  re- 
placed her  chair  at  the  table.  "Sit  down  here!  Let 
me  understand!  You  thought  that  I  had  ceased  to 
care  for  you?     When  I  ceased  to  write,  I  suppose?" 

Millie  shook  her  head. 

344 


'•'OH,   please!'    he   said,   very  quietly,   'get   up   from 


YOUR    KNEES 


THE   TRUANTS 

"  Before  that  ?" 

Tony  dropped  into  the  chair  on  which  Gallon  had 
been  sitting. 

"Before  that?"  he  exclaimed,  in  perplexity.  "When? 
Tell  me!" 

Millie  sat  over  against  him  at  the  table. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  evening  when  you  first  told 
me  that  you  had  made  up  your  mind  to  go  away  and 
make  a  home  for  both  of  us  ?  It  was  on  that  evening. 
You  gave  your  reason  for  going  away.  We  had  be- 
gun to  quarrel — we  were  drifting  apart." 

"I  remember,"  said  Tony;  "but  we  had  not  ceased 
to  care  then,  neither  you  nor  L  It  was  just  because 
I  feared  that  at  some  time  we  might  cease  to  care  that 
I  was  resolved  to  go  away." 

"Ah,"  said  MilHe;  "but  already  the  change  had  be- 
gun. Yes,  yes!  Things  which  you  thought  you  never 
could  remember  without  a  thrill  you  remembered  al- 
ready with  indifference — you  remembered  them  with- 
out being  any  longer  moved  or  touched  by  the  asso- 
ciations which  they  once  had  had.  I  recollect  the 
very  words  you  used.  I  sat  as  still  as  could  be  while 
you  spoke  them;  but  I  never  forgot  them,  Tony. 
There  was  a  particular  instance  which  you  mentioned 
— a  song — "  And,  suddenly,  Tony  laughed;  but  he 
laughed  harshly,  and  there  was  no  look  of  amusement 
on  his  face.  Millie  stared  at  him  in  surprise,  but  he 
did  not  explain,  and  she  went  on  with  her  argument. 
"So,  when  you  ceased  to  write  I  was  still  more  con- 
vinced that  you  had  ceased  to  care.  When  you  re- 
mained away  after  your  father  had  died  I  was  yet 
more  sure." 

Tony  leaned  across  the  white  table-cloth  with  its 
glittering  silver,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  her. 

345 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  will  tell  you  why  I  ceased  to  write.  Every  let- 
ter which  you  wrote  to  me  when  I  was  in  New  York 
was  more  contemptuous  than  the  letter  which  had 
preceded  it.  I  had  failed,  and  you  despised  me  for 
my  failure.  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be  tricked  out 
of  your  money — "  And  upon  that  Millie  interrupted 
him. 

"Oh  no!"  she  cried;  "you  must  not  say  that  I  de- 
spised you  for  that.  No!  That  is  not  fair.  I  never 
thought  of  the  money.  I  offered  you  what  was 
left." 

Tony  had  put  himself  in  the  wrong  here.  He  rec- 
ognized his  mistake;  he  accepted  Millie's  correction. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  he  said;  "you  offered  me  all 
that  was  left — but  you  offered  it  contemptuously ;  you 
had  no  shadow  of  belief  that  I  would  use  it  to  advan- 
tage— you  had  no  faith  in  me  at  all.  In  your  eyes  I 
was  no  good.  Mind,  I  don't  blame  you.  You  were 
justified,  no  doubt.  I  had  set  out  to  make  a  home 
for  you,  as  many  a  man  has  done  for  his  wife.  Only 
where  they  had  succeeded  I  had  failed.  If  I  thought 
an)rthing  at  all — "  he  said,  with  an  air  of  hesitation. 

"Well?"  asked  Millie. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  expressed  your  con- 
tempt with  a  little  less  of  unkindness,  or  perhaps  have 
hidden  it  altogether.  You  see,  I  was  not  having  an 
easy  time  in  New  York,  and  your  letters  made  it  very 
much  harder." 

"Oh,  Tony,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  of  self-re- 
proach. She  was  sitting  with  her  hands  clinched  in 
front  of  her  upon  the  table-cloth,  her  forehead  puck- 
ered, and  in  her  eyes  a  look  of  great  pain. 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  rephed,  and  he  resumed  his 
story.     "  I  saw  then  quite  clearly  that  with  each  letter 

346 


THE   TRUANTS 

which  you  received  from  me,  each  new  instalment  of 
my  record  of  failure  —  for  each  letter  was  just  that, 
wasn't  it  ? — your  contempt  grew.  I  was  determined 
that  if  I  could  help  it  your  contempt  should  not  em- 
bitter all  our  two  lives.  So  I  ceased  to  write.  For  the 
same  reason  I  stayed  away,  even  after  my  father  had 
died.  Had  I  come  back  then  I  should  have  come  back 
a  failure,  proved  and  self-confessed.  And  your  scorn 
would  have  stayed  with  you.  My  business  henceforth 
was  to  destroy  it,  to  prove  to  you  that  after  all  I  was 
some  good — if  not  at  money-making,  at  something 
else.  I  resolved  that  we  should  not  live  together 
again  until  I  could  come  to  you  and  say:  "  You  have 
no  right  to  despise  me.     Here's  the  proof." 

Millie  was  learning  now,  even  as  Tony  had  learned  a 
minute  ago.  All  that  he  said  to  her  was  utterly  sur- 
prising and  strange.  He  had  been  thinking  of  her, 
then,  all  the  time  while  he  was  away!  Indifference  was 
in  no  way  the  reason  of  his  absence. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  not  write  this  to  me?"  she  cried. 
"It  need  not  have  been  a  long  letter,  since  you  were 
unwilling  to  write.  But  just  this  you  might  have 
written.  It  would  have  been  better,  kinder" — and 
she  paused  upon  the  word,  uttering  it  with  hesitation 
and  a  shy,  deprecating  smile,  as  though  aware  that  she 
had  no  claim  upon  his  kindness.  "  It  would  have  been 
kinder  than  just  to  leave  me  here,  not  knowing  where 
you  were,  and  thinking  what  I  did." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Tony,  "I  might  have  written. 
But  would  you  have  believed  me  if  I  had?     No." 

"Then  you  might  have  come  to  me,"  she  urged. 
"Once — just  for  five  minutes — to  tell  me  what  you 
meant  to  do." 

" I  might,"  Tony  agreed ;  "in  fact,  I  very  nearly  did. 

347 


THE   TRUANTS 

I  was  under  the  windows  of  the  house  in  Berkeley 
Square  one  night."     And  MilHe  started. 

"Yes,  you  were,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"You  knew  that?" 

"Yes;  I  knew  it  the  next  day."  And  she  added,  "  I 
wish  now,  I  think,  that  you  had  come  in  that  night." 

"Suppose  that  I  had,"  said  Tony;  "suppose  that  I 
had  told  you  of  my  fine  plan,  you  would  have  had  no 
faith  in  it.  You  would  merely  have  thought,  'Here's 
another  folly  to  be  added  to  the  rest.'  Your  con- 
tempt would  have  been  increased,  that's  all." 

It  was  quite  strange  to  Millie  Stretton  that  there 
ever  could  have  been  a  time  when  she  had  despised 
him.  She  saw  him  sitting  now  in  front  of  her,  quiet 
and  stem ;  she  remembered  her  own  terror  when  he 
burst  into  the  room,  when  he  flung  Gallon  headlong 
through  the  windows,  when  he  turned  at  last  towards 
her. 

"We  have  been  strangers  to  each  other." 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "I  did  not  know  you.  I  should 
never  have  left  you — now  I  understand  that.  I  trusted 
you  very  blindly,  but  I  did  not  know  you." 

Millie  lowered  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"Nor  I  you,"  she  answered.  "What  did  you  do 
when  you  went  away  that  night  from  Berkeley 
Square?" 

"I  enlisted  in  the  Foreign  Legion  in  Algeria." 

Millie  raised  her  head  again  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"Soldiering  was  my  trade,  you  see.  It  was  the  one 
profession  where  I  had  just  a  little  of  that  expert 
knowledge  which  is  necessary  nowadays  if  you  are  to 
make  your  living." 

Something  of  his  life  in  the  Foreign  Legion  Tony 
now  told  her.     He  spoke  deliberately,  since  a  light 

348 


THE   TRUANTS 

was  beginning  dimly  to  shine  through  the  darkness  of 
his  perplexities.  Of  a  set  purpose  he  described  to  her 
the  arduous  perils  of  active  service  and  the  monotony 
of  the  cantonments.  He  was  resolved  that  she  should 
understand  in  the  spirit  and  in  the  letter  the  life  which 
for  her  sake  he  had  led.  He  related  his  expedition  to 
the  Figuig  oasis,  his  march  into  the  Sahara  under  Tav- 
ernay.  He  took  from  his  pocket  the  medals  which 
he  had  won  and  laid  them  upon  the  table-cloth  before 
her. 

"Look  at  them,"  he  said;  "I  earned  them.  These 
are  mine.  I  earned  them  for  you ;  and  while  I  was  earn- 
ing them  what  were  you  doing?" 

Millie  listened  and  looked.  Wonder  grew  upon  her. 
It  was  for  her  that  he  had  labored  and  endured  and 
succeeded !  His  story  was  a  revelation  to  her.  Never 
had  she  dreamed  that  a  man  would  so  strive  for  any 
woman.  She  had  lived  so  long  among  the  little  things 
of  the  world — the  little  emotions,  the  little  passions, 
the  little  jealousies  and  rivalries,  the  little  aims,  the 
little  methods  of  attaining  them,  that  only  with  great 
difficulty  could  she  realize  a  simpler  and  a  wider  Hfe. 
She  was  overwhelmed  now.  Pride  and  humiHation 
fought  within  her — pride  that  Tony  had  so  striven  for 
her  in  silence  and  obscurity,  humiliation  because  she 
had  fallen  so  short  of  his  example.  It  was  her  way  to 
feel  in  superlatives  at  any  crisis  of  her  destiny,  but 
surely  she  had  a  justification  now. 

"I  never  knew — I  never  thought!  Oh,  Tony!"  she 
exclaimed,  twisting  her  hands  together  as  she  sat  be- 
fore him. 

"I  became  a  sergeant,"  he  said.  "Then  I  brought 
back  the  remnants  of  the  geographical  expedition  to 
Ouargla."     He  taxed  his  memory  for  the  vivid  details 

349 


THE   TRUANTS 

of  that  terrible  retreat.  He  compelled  her  to  realize 
something  of  the  dumb,  implacable  hostility  of  the 
Sahara,  to  see,  in  the  evening  against  the  setting  sun, 
the  mounted  figures  of  the  Touaregs,  and  to  under- 
stand that  the  day's  march  had  not  shaken  them  off. 
She  seemed  to  be  on  the  march  herself,  wondering 
whether  she  would  live  out  the  day,  or,  if  she  survived 
that,  whether  she  would  live  out  the  night. 

"But  you  succeeded!"  she  cried,  clinging  to  the  fact 
that  they  were  both  here  in  France,  with  the  murmur 
of  the  Mediterranean  in  their  ears.     "  You  came  back." 

"Yes,  I  came  back.  One  morning  I  marched  my 
men  through  the  gate  of  Ouargla — and  what  were  you 
doing  upon  that  day?" 

Talking,  perhaps,  with  Lionel  Gallon,  in  one  of 
those  unfrequented  public  places  with  which  London 
abounds!  Millie  could  not  tell.  She  sat  there  and 
compared  Lionel  Gallon  with  the  man  who  was  before 
her.  Memories  of  the  kind  of  talk  she  was  wont  to 
hold  with  Lionel  Gallon  recurred  to  her,  filling  her  with 
shame.  She  was  glad  to  think  that  when  Tony  led  his 
broken,  weary  force  through  the  gate  of  Ouargla  Lionel 
Gallon  had  not  been  with  her — had,  indeed,  been  far 
away  in  Ghile.  She  suddenly  placed  her  hands  before 
her  face  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Tony,"  she  whispered,  in  an  abasement  of 
humiliation.     "Oh,  Tony." 

"By  that  homeward  march,"  he  went  on,  "I  gained 
my  commission.  That  was  what  I  aimed  at  all  the 
while,  and  I  had  earned  it  at  the  last.     Look!" 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  letter  which  his  colonel 
had  handed  to  him  at  Ain-Sefra.  He  had  carefully 
treasured  it  all  this  while.  He  held  it  out  to  her  and 
made  her  read. 

350 


THE   TRUANTS 

■'You  see?"  he  said.  "A  commission  won  from  the 
ranks  in  the  hardest  service  known  to  soldiers,  won 
without  advantage  of  name,  or  friends,  or  money.  Won 
just  by  myself.  That  is  what  I  strove  for.  If  I  could 
win  that  I  could  come  back  to  you  with  a  great  pride. 
I  should  be  no  longer  the  man  who  was  no  good.  You 
yourself  might  even  be  proud  of  me.  I  used  to  dream 
of  that — to  dream  of  something  else." 

His  voice  softened  a  little,  and  a  smile  for  a  moment 
relaxed  the  severity  of  his  face. 
"Of  what?"  she  asked. 

"Out  there  among  the  sand  hills,  under  the  stars  at 
night,  I  used  to  dream  that  we  might  perhaps  get  hold 
again  of  the  little  house  in  Deanery  Street,  where  we 
were  so  happy  together  once.  We  might  pretend  al- 
most that  we  had  lived  there  all  the  time." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  of  great  longing,  and  Millie  was 
touched  to  the  heart.  She  looked  at  Tony  through 
her  tears.  There  was  a  great  longing  astir  within  her 
at  this  moment.  Was  that  httle  house  in  Deanery 
Street  still  a  possibility?  She  did  not  presume  to 
hope  so  much;  but  she  wished  that  she  could  have 
hoped.  She  pressed  the  letter  which  she  held  against 
her  breast;  she  would  have  loved  to  have  held  it  to  her 
lips,  but  that  again  she  did  not  dare  to  do. 

"At  all  events  you  did  succeed,"  she  said;  "I  shall 
be  glad  to  know  that.  I  shall  always  be  glad— what- 
ever happens  now." 

"But  I  did  not  succeed,"  Tony  repHed.  "I  earned 
the  commission ,  yes !— I  never  held  it .  That  letter  was 
given  to  me  one  Monday  by  my  colonel  at  Ain-Sefra. 
You  mentioned  a  song  a  minute  ago,  do  you  remember  ? 
...  I  had  lost  the  associations  of  that  song.  I  laughed 
when  you  mentioned  it,  and  you  were  surprised.     I 

351 


THE   TRUANTS 

laughed  because  when  I  received  that  letter  I  took  it 
away  with  me,  and  that  song,  with  all  that  it  had  ever 
meant,  came  back  to  my  mind.  I  lay  beneath  the 
palm-trees,  and  I  looked  across  the  water  past  the 
islands  and  I  saw  the  lights  of  the  yachts  in  Oban 
Bay.  I  was  on  the  dark  lawn  again,  high  above  the 
sea,  the  lighted  windows  of  the  house  were  behind 
me.  I  heard  your  voice.  Oh,  I  had  got  you  alto- 
gether back  that  day,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  cry, 
"It  was  as  though  I  held  your  hands  and  looked  into 
your  eyes.  I  went  back  towards  the  barracks  to 
write  to  you,  and  as  I  went  some  one  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder  and  brought  me  news  of  you  to  wake  me 
out  of  my  dreams." 

Just  for  a  moment  Millie  wondered  who  it  was  who 
had  brought  the  news;  but  the  next  words  which  Tony 
spoke  drove  the  question  from  her  mind. 

"A  few  more  weeks  and  I  should  have  held  that 
commission.  I  might  have  left  the  legion,  leaving 
behind  me  many  friends  and  an  honored  name.  As  it 
was  I  had  to  desert — I  deserted  that  night." 

He  spoke  quite  simply,  but,  nevertheless,  the  words 
fell  with  a  shock  upon  Millie.  She  uttered  a  low  cry. 
"Oh,  Tony!"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  of  the  head,  "  I  incurred 
that  disgrace.  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  it  all  my  life. 
Had  I  been  caught  it  might  have  meant  an  ignoble 
death ;  in  any  case  it  would  have  meant  years  of  prison 
— and  I  should  have  deserved  those  years  of  prison." 

MilHe  shut  her  eyes  in  horror.  Everything  else  that 
he  had  told  her — his  sufferings,  his  perils — all  seemed 
of  little  account  beside  this  crowning  risk,  this  crown- 
ing act  of  sacrifice.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  had 
risked  a  shameful  death  or  a  shameful  imprisonment. 

352 


THE   TRUANTS 

Millie  was  well  aware  that  his  whole  nature  and  char- 
acter must  be  in  revolt  against  the  act  itself.  Deser- 
tion! It  implied  disloyalty,  untruth,  deceit,  cow- 
ardice— just  those  qualities,  indeed,  which  she  knew 
Tony  most  to  hate,  which,  perhaps,  she  had  rather 
despised  him  for  hating.  No  man  would  have  been 
more  severe  in  the  punishment  of  a  deserter  than 
Tony  himself.  Yet  he  had  deserted,  and  upon  her 
account.  And  he  sat  there  telling  her  of  it  quietly,  as 
though  it  were  the  most  insignificant  action  in  the 
world.  He  might  have  escaped  the  consequences — 
he  would  certainly  not  have  escaped  the  shame. 

But  Millie's  cup  of  remorse  was  not  yet  full. 

"Yet  I  cannot  see  that  I  could  do  anything  else. 
To-night  proves  to  me  that  I  was  right,  I  think.  I 
have  come  very  quickly,  yet  I  am  only  just  in  time." 
There  was  a  long  stain  of  wine  upon  the  table-cloth 
beneath  his  eyes.  There  Gallon  had  upset  his  glass 
upon  Tony's  entrance. 

"Yes,  it  was  time  that  I  returned,"  he  continued. 
"One  way  or  another  a  burden  of  disgrace  had  to  be 
borne — if  I  stayed  just  as  certainly  as  if  I  came  away ; 
I  saw  that  quite  clearly.  So  I  came  away."  He  for- 
bore to  say  that  now  the  disgrace  fell  only  upon  his 
shoulders,  that  she  was  saved  from  it.  But  Millie 
understood,  and  in  her  heart  she  thanked  him  for  his 
forbearance.  "But  it  was  hard  on  me,  I  think,"  he 
said.  "You  see,  even  now  I  am  on  French  soil  and 
subject  to  French  laws." 

And  Millie,  upon  that,  started  up  in  alarm. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

"There  has  been  a  disturbance  here  to-night,  has 
there  not  ?     Suppose  that  the  manager  of  this  restau- 
rant has  sent  for  a  gendarme!" 
«3  353 


THE   TRUANTS 

With  a  swift  movement  Millie  gathered  up  the 
medals  and  held  them  close  in  her  clinched  hands. 

"Oh,  it  does  not  need  those  to  convict  me;  my 
name  would  be  enough.  Let  my  name  appear  and 
there's  a  deserter  from  the  Foreign  Legion  laid  by  the 
heels  in  France.  All  the  time  we  have  been  talking 
here  I  have  sat  expecting  that  door  to  open  behind 
me." 

Millie  caught  up  a  lace  wrap  whch  lay  upon  a  sofa. 
She  had  the  look  of  a  hunted  creature.  She  spoke 
quickly  and  feverishly,  in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  why  did  not  you  say  this  at  once?  Let  us 
go!" 

Tony  sat  stubbornly  in  his  chair. 

"No,"  said  he,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  "I 
have  given  you  an  account  of  how  I  have  spent  the 
years  during  which  we  have  been  apart.  Can  you  do 
the  same?" 

He  waited  for  her  answer  in  suspense.  To  this  ques- 
tion  all  his  words  had  been  steadily  leading;  for  this 
reason  he  had  dwelt  upon  his  own  career.  Would 
she,  stung  by  her  remorse,  lay  before  him  truthfully 
and  without  reserve  the  story  of  her  years?  If  she 
did,  why,  that  dim  Hght  which  shone  amid  the  dark- 
ness of  his  perplexities  might  perhaps  shine  a  little 
brighter.  He  uttered  his  question.  Millie  bowed  her 
head  and  answered, 

"I  will." 

"Sit  down,  then,  and  tell  me  now." 

"Oh  no,"  she  exclaimed;  "not  here!  It  is  not  safe. 
As  we  go  back  to  Eze  I  will  tell  you  everything." 

A  look  of  relief  came  upon  Tony's  face.  He  rose 
and  touched  the  bell. 

A  waiter  appeared. 

354 


THE   TRUANTS 

"I  will  pay  the  bill,"  he  said. 

The  waiter  brought  the  bill  and  Tony  discharged  it. 

"The  gentleman— M.  Gallon,"  the  waiter  said.  "A 
doctor  has  been.  He  has  a  concussion.  It  will  be  a 
little  time  before  he  is  able  to  be  moved." 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Tony,  with  indifference.  He  walked 
with  his  wife  out  of  the  little,  gayly  lighted  room  into 
the  big,  silent  restaurant.  A  single  light  faintly  il- 
luminated it.  They  crossed  it  to  the  door  and  went 
up  the  winding  drive  on  to  the  road.  The  night  was 
dry  and  clear  and  warm.  There  was  no  moon.  They 
walked  in  the  pure  twilight  of  the  stars  round  the 
gorge  towards  Eze. 


XXXIII 
MILLIE'S   STORY 

THEY  walked  for  a  while  in  silence,  side  by  side, 
yet  not  so  close  but  that  there  was  an  interval 
between  them.  Millie  every  now  and  then  glanced  at 
Tony's  face,  but  she  saw  only  his  profile,  and  with 
only  the  glimmer  of  the  starlight  to  serve  her  for  a 
reading-lamp  she  could  guess  nothing  of  his  expression. 
But  he  walked  like  a  man  utterly  dispirited  and  tired. 
The  hopes  so  stoutly  cherished  during  the  last  few 
years  had  all  crumbled  away  to-night.  Perpetually 
his  thoughts  recurred  to  that  question,  which  now 
never  could  be  answered — if  he  had  gone  into  the 
house  in  Berkeley  Square  on  that  distant  evening, 
when  he  had  been  contented  to  pace  for  a  little  while 
beneath  the  windows,  would  he  have  averted  the 
trouble  which  had  reached  its  crisis  to-night  at  the 
Reserve?  He  thought  not — he  was  not  sure;  only  he 
was  certain  that  he  should  have  gone  in.  He  stopped 
and  turned  back,  looking  towards  the  Reserve.  A 
semicircle  of  lights  over  the  doorway  was  visible, 
and  as  he  looked  those  lights  were  suddenly  extin- 
guished.    He  heard  Millie's  voice  at  his  side. 

"I  will  tell  you  now  how  the  time  has  passed  with 
me."  And  he  saw  that  she  was  looking  steadfastly 
into  his  eyes.  "The  story  will  sound  very  trivial, 
very  contemptible,  after  what  you  have  told  me.  It 
fills  me  utterly  with  shame.     But  I  should  have  told 

356 


THE  TRUANTS 

you  it  none  the  less  had  you  not  asked  for  it — I  rather 
wish  that  you  had  not  asked  for  it ;  for  I  think  I  must 
have  told  you  of  my  own  accord." 

She  spoke  in  a  quick,  troubled  voice,  but  it  did  not 
waver;  nor  did  her  eyes  once  fall  from  his.  The 
change  in  her  was  swift  no  doubt.  But  down  there 
in  the  Reserve,  where  the  lights  were  out  and  the  sea 
echoed  through  empty  rooms,  she  had  had  stem  and 
savage  teachers.  Terror,  humiliation,  and  the  spec- 
tacle of  violence  had  torn  away  a  veil  from  before  her 
eyes.  She  saw  her  own  life  in  its  true  perspective.  And 
that  she  might  see  it  the  more  clearly  and  understand, 
she  had  the  story  of  another  life  wherewith  to  com- 
pare it.  It  is  a  quality  of  big  performances,  whether 
in  art  or  life,  that  while  they  surprise  when  first  ap- 
prehended, they  appear  upon  thought  to  be  so  simple 
that  it  is  astonishing  surprise  was  ever  felt.  Some- 
thing of  that  quality  Tony's  career  possessed.  It  had 
come  upon  Millie  as  a  revelation,  yet  now  she  was 
thinking:  "Yes,  that  is  what  Tony  would  do.  How 
is  it  I  never  guessed  ?"  She  put  him  side  by  side  with 
that  other  man,  the  warrior  of  the  drawing-rooms,  and 
she  was  filled  with  shame  that  ever  she  could  have 
preferred  the  latter  even  for  a  moment  of  madness. 

They  walked  slowly  on  again.  Millie  drew  her  lace 
wrap  more  closely  about  her  throat. 

"Are  you  cold?"  asked  Tony.  "Yju  are  Hghtly 
clothed  to  be  talking  here.  We  had  better,  perhaps, 
walk  on,  and  keep  what  you  have  to  tell  me  until  to- 
morrow." 

"No,"  she  answered,  quickly,  "  I  am  not  cold.  And 
I  must  tell  you  what  I  have  to  tell  you  to-night.  I 
want  all  this  bad,  foolish  part  of  my  life  to  end  to- 
night, to  be  extinguished  just  as  those  lights  were 

357 


THE   TRUANTS 

extinguished  a  minute  since.  Only  there  is  something 
I  should  like  to  say  to  you  first."  Millie's  voice  wa- 
vered now  and  broke.  "If  we  do  not  walk  along  the 
road  together  any  more,"  she  went  on,  timidly,  "I 
will  still  be  glad  that  you  came  back  to-night.  I  do 
not  know  that  you  will  believe  that — I  do  not,  indeed, 
see  why  you  should;  but  I  should  very  much  like  you 
to  believe  it,  for  it  is  the  truth.  I  have  learned  a  good 
deal,  I  think,  during  the  last  three  hours.  I  would 
rather  go  on  alone — if  it  is  to  be  so — in  this  dim,  clear 
starlight,  than  ever  be  back  again  in  the  little  room 
with  its  lights  and  flowers.     Do  you  understand  me?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Tony. 

"At  all  events,  the  road  is  visible  ahead,"  she  went 
on.  "One  sees  it  glimmering,  one  can  keep  between 
the  banks ;  while  in  the  little  lighted  room  it  is  easy  to 
get  lost." 

And  thus  to  Millie  now,  as  to  Pamela  when  she  rode 
back  from  her  last  interview  with  Warrisden  at  the 
village  of  the  three  poplars,  the  ribbon  of  white  road 
stretching  away  in  the  dusk  became  a  parable. 

"Yes,"  said  Tony,  "perhaps  my  path  was  really 
the  easier  one  to  follow.     It  was  direct  and  plain." 

"Ah,"  said  Millie,  "it  only  seems  so  because  you 
have  traversed  it  and  are  looking  back.  I  do  not 
think  it  was  so  simple  and  direct  while  you  walked 
upon  it."  And  Tony,  remembering  the  doubts  and 
perplexities  which  had  besieged  him,  could  not  but 
assent. 

"  I  do  not  think,  too,  that  it  was  so  easy  to  discover 
at  the  beginning." 

There  rose  before  Tony's  eyes  the  picture  of  a  ketch- 
rigged  boat  sailing  at  night  over  a  calm  sea.  A  man 
leaned  over  the  bulwarks,  and  the  bright  glare  from  a 

358 


THE   TRUANTS 

lightship  ran  across  the  waves  and  flashed  upon  his 
face.  Tony  remembered  the  moment  very  clearly 
when  he  had  first  hit  upon  his  plan;  he  remembered 
the  weeks  of  anxiety  of  which  it  was  the  outcome.  No, 
the  road  had  not  been  easy  to  find  at  the  beginning. 
He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  said,  gently: 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  asked  you  to  tell  your  story — I 
am  sorry  that  I  did  not  leave  the  decision  to  you.  But 
it  shall  be  as  though  you  told  it  of  your  own  accord." 

The  sentence  was  a  concession,  no  less  in  the  man- 
ner of  its  utterance  than  in  the  words  themselves. 
Millie  took  heart,  and  told  him  the  whole  story  of  her 
dealings  with  Lionel  Gallon,  without  excuses  and  with- 
out concealments. 

"  I  seemed  to  mean  so  much  to  him,  so  little  to  you," 
she  said.  "You  see,  I  did  not  understand  you  at  all. 
You  were  away,  too,  and  he  was  near.  I  do  not  defend 
myself." 

She  did  not  spare  herself;  she  taxed  her  memory  for 
the  details  of  her  days;  and  as  she  spoke  the  story 
seemed  more  utterly  contemptible  and  small  than  even 
she  in  her  abasement  had  imagined  it  would  be.  But 
she  struggled  through  with  it  to  the  end. 

"That  night  when  you  stood  beneath  the  windows 
in  Berkeley  Square,"  she  said,  "he  was  with  me.  He 
ran  in  from  Lady  Millingham's  party  and  talked  with 
me  for  half  an  hour.  Yes,  at  the  very  time  when  you 
were  standing  on  the  pavement  he  was  within  the 
house.  I  know,  for  you  were  seen,  and  on  the  next  day 
I  was  told  of  your  presence.  I  was  afraid  then.  The 
news  was  a  shock  to  me.  I  thought,  'Suppose  you 
had  come  in!'" 

"But,  back  there,  in  the  room,"  Tony  interrupted, 
"you  told  me  that  you  wished  I  had  come  in." 

359 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "And  it  is  quite  true;  I  wish 
now  that  you  had  come  in." 

She  told  him  of  the  drive  round  Regent's  Park  and 
of  the  consent  she  gave  that  night  to  Lionel  Gallon. 

"I  think  you  know  everything  now,"  she  said.  "I 
have  tried  to  forget  nothing.  I  want  you,  whatever 
you  decide  to  do,  to  decide  knowing  everything." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tony,  simply. 

And  she  added,  "I  am  not  the  first  woman  I  know 
who  has  thrown  away  the  substance  for  the  shadow." 

Upon  the  rest  of  that  walk  little  was  said.  They 
went  forward  beneath  the  stars.  A  great  silence  lay 
upon  sea  and  land.  The  hills  rose  dark  and  high  upon 
their  left  hand,  the  sea  murmured  and  whispered  to 
them  upon  the  right.  Millie  walked  even  more  slowly 
as  they  neared  the  hotel  at  Eze,  and  Tony  turned  to 
her  with  a  question. 

"You  are  tired?" 

"No,"  she  answered. 

She  was  thinking  that  very  likely  she  would  never 
walk  again  on  any  road  with  Tony  at  her  side,  and 
she  was  minded  to  prolong  this  last  walk  to  the  last 
possible  moment.  For  in  this  one  night  Tony  had  re- 
conquered her.  It  was  not  merely  that  his  story  had 
filled  her  with  amazement  and  pride,  but  she  had  seen 
him  that  night  strong  and  dominant,  as  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  seeing  him.  She  loved  his  very  sternness 
towards  herself.  Not  once  had  he  spoken  her  name 
and  called  her  "MilHe."  She  had  watched  for  that 
and  longed  for  it,  and  yet  because  he  had  not  used  it 
she  was  the  nearer  to  worship.  Once  she  said  to  him, 
with  a  start  of  anxiety, 

"You  are  not  staying  here  under  your  own  name?" 

"No,"  he  replied.     "A  friend  has  taken  rooms  in 

360 


THE   TRUANTS 

Monte  Carlo  for  both  of  us.  Only  his  name  has  been 
given." 

"And  you  will  leave  France  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

"Promise!"  she  cried. 

Tony  promised,  with  a  look  of  curiosity  at  his  wife. 
Why  should  she  be  so  eager  for  his  safety?  He  did 
not  understand.  He  was  wondering  what  he  must  do 
in  this  crisis  of  their  lives.  Was  he  to  come,  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts,  to  that  ordinary  compromise  which 
it  had  been  his  object  to  avoid?' 

They  reached  the  door  of  the  hotel  and  there  Tony 
halted. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  He  did  not  hold  out  his  hand. 
He  stood  confronting  Millie  with  the  light  from  the 
hall  lamp  falling  full  upon  his  face.  Millie  hoped  that 
he  would  say  something  more — just  a  little  word  of 
kindness  or  forgiveness — if  only  she  waited  long  enough 
without  answering  him ;  and  she  was  willing  to  wait  un- 
til the  morning  came.  He  did,  indeed,  speak  again, 
and  then  Millie  was  sorry  that  she  had  waited.  For 
he  said  the  one  really  cruel  thing  among  all  the  words 
he  had  said  that  night.  He  was  not  aware  of  its 
cruelty,  he  was  only  conscious  of  its  truth. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said — and  upon  his  tired  face 
there  came  a  momentary  smile — "to-night  I  miss  the 
legion  very  much."     Again  he  said  "Good-night." 

This  time  Millie  answered  him,  and  in  an  instant  he 
was  gone.  She  could  have  cried  out;  she  could  hardly 
restrain  her  voice  from  calling  him  back  to  her.  "Was 
this  the  end?"  she  asked.  "That  one  cruel  sentence, 
and  then  the  commonplace  good-night,  without  so 
much  as  a  touch  of  the  hands.  Was  this  the  very  end  ?" 
A  sharp  fear  stabbed  her.     For  a  few  moments  she 

361 


THE   TRUANTS 

heard  Tony's  footsteps  upon  the  flags  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  and  then  for  a  few  moments  upon  the  gravel 
of  the  garden  path;  and  after  that  she  heard  only  the 
murmur  of  the  sea.  And  all  at  once  for  her  the  world 
was  empty.  "Was  this  the  end?"  she  asked  herself 
again  most  piteously — "this,  which  might  have  been 
the  beginning."  Slowly  she  went  up  to  her  rooms. 
Sleep  did  not  visit  her  that  night. 


XXXIV 
THE   NEXT   HORNING 

THERE  was  another  who  kept  a  vigil  all  the  night. 
In  the  Villa  Pontignard  Pamela  Mardale  saw 
from  her  window  the  morning  break,  and  wondered 
in  dread  what  had  happened  upon  that  broad  terrace 
by  the  sea.  She  dressed  and  went  down  into  the 
garden.  As  yet  the  world  was  gray  and  cool,  and 
something  of  its  quietude  entered  into  her  and  gave 
her  peace.  A  light  mist  hung  over  the  sea,  birds  sang 
sweetly  in  the  trees,  and  from  the  chimneys  of  Roque- 
brune  the  blue  smoke  began  to  coil.  In  the  homely 
suggestions  of  that  blue  smoke  Pamela  found  a  com- 
fort. She  watched  it  for  a  while,  and  then  there  came 
a  flush  of  rose  upon  the  crests  of  the  hills.  The  mist 
was  swept  away  from  the  floor  of  the  sea,  shadows 
and  light  suddenly  ran  down  the  hill-sides,  and  the 
waves  danced  with  a  sparkle  of  gold.  The  sun  had 
risen.  Pamela  saw  a  man  coming  up  the  open  slope 
from  Roquebrune  to  the  villa.  It  was  M.  Giraud. 
She  ran  to  the  gate  and  met  him  there. 

"Well?"  she  asked.     And  he  answered,  sadly: 

"I  arrived  too  late." 

The  color  went  from  Pamela's  cheeks.  She  set  a 
hand  upon  the  gate  to  steady  herself.  There  was  an 
expression  of  utter  consternation  on  her  face. 

"Too  late,  I  mean,"  the  school-master  explained, 
hurriedly,  "to  help  you,  to  be  of  any  real  service  to 

3^3 


THE   TRUANTS 

you.  But  the  harm  done  is  perhaps  not  so  great  as 
you  fear." 

He  described  to  her  what  he  had  seen — Lionel  Gal- 
lon lying  outstretched  and  insensible  upon  the  pave- 
ment, Tony  and  Millie  Stretton  within  the  room. 

"We  removed  M.  Gallon  to  his  bedroom,"  he  said. 
"Then  I  fetched  a  doctor.  M.  Gallon  will  recover — it 
is  a  concussion  of  the  brain.  He  will  be  ill  for  a  little 
time,  but  he  will  get  well." 

"And  the  man  and  the  woman?"  Pamela  asked 
eagerly.  "The  two  within  the  room?  What  of 
them?" 

"They  were  standing  opposite  to  each  other." 
The  school-master  had  not  seen  Millie  on  her  knees. 
"A  chair  was  overturned,  the  chair  on  which  she  had 
sat.  She  was  in  great  distress,  and,  I  think,  afraid; 
but  he  spoke  quietly."  He  described  how  he  had 
offered  Tony  the  letter,  and  how  Tony  had  closed  the 
door  of  the  room  upon  the  waiters. 

"The  manager  did  not  know  what  to  do,  whether 
to  send  for  help  or  not.  But  I  did  not  think  that 
there  was  any  danger  to  the  woman  in  the  room,  and 
I  urged  him  to  do  nothing." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pamela,  gratefully.  "Indeed, 
you  were  in  time  to  help  me." 

But  even  then  she  did  not  know  how  much  she  was 
indebted  to  the  school-master's  advice.  She  was  think- 
ing of  the  scandal  which  must  have  arisen  had  the 
police  been  called  in,  of  the  publication  of  Millie's  folly 
to  the  world  of  her  acquaintances.  That  was  pre- 
vented now.  If  Tony  took  back  his  wife — as  with  all 
her  heart  she  hoped  he  would — he  would  not,  at  all 
events,  take  back  one  of  whom  gossip  would  be  speak- 
ing with  a  slighting  tongue.     She  was  not  aware  that 

364 


THE   TRUANTS 

Tony  had  deserted  from  the  Legion  to  keep  his  tryst 
upon  the  31st  of  the  month.  Afterwards,  when  she 
did  learn  this,  she  was  glad  that  she  had  not  lacked 
warmth  when  she  had  expressed  her  gratitude  to  M. 
Giraud.  A  look  of  pleasure  came  into  the  school- 
master's face. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  said.  "When  I  brought  the 
doctor  back  the  two  within  the  room  were  talking 
quietly  together;  we  could  hear  their  voices  through 
the  door.  So  I  came  away.  I  walked  up  to  the  villa 
here.  But  it  was  already  late,  and  the  Hghts  were 
out — except  in  one  room  on  an  upper  floor  looking 
over  the  sea — that  room,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  window. 

"Yes,  that  is  my  room,"  said  Pamela. 

"I  thought  it  was  likely  to  be  yours,  and  I  hesitated 
whether  I  should  fling  up  a  stone;  but  I  was  not  sure 
that  it  was  your  room.  So  I  determined  to  wait  until 
the  morning.  I  am  sorry,  for  you  have  been  very 
anxious  and  have  not  slept — I  can  see  that.  I  could 
have  saved  you  some  hours  of  anxiety." 

Pamela  laughed  in  friendliness,  and  the  laugh  told 
him  surely  that  her  distress  had  gone  from  her. 

"That  does  not  matter,"  she  said.  "You  have 
brought  me  very  good  news.  I  could  well  afford  to 
wait  for  it." 

The  school-master  remained  in  an  awkward  hesita- 
tion at  the  gate;  it  was  clear  that  he  had  something 
more  to  say.  It  was  no  less  clear  that  he  found  the 
utterance  of  it  very  difficult.  Pamela  guessed  what 
was  in  his  mind,  and,  after  her  own  fashion,  she 
helped  him  to  speak  it.  She  opened  the  gate,  which 
up  till  now  had  stood  closed  between  them. 

"Come  in  for  a  little  while,  won't  you?"  she  said; 
and  she  led  the  way  through  the  garden  to  that  nar- 

365 


THE   TRUANTS 

row  comer  on  the  bluff  of  the  hill  which  had  so  many 
associations  for  them  both.  If  M.  Giraud  meant  to 
say  what  she  thought  he  did,  here  was  the  one  place 
where  utterance  would  be  easy.  Here  they  had  inter- 
changed, in  other  times,  their  innermost  thoughts, 
their  most  sacred  confidences.  The  stone  parapet, 
the  bench,  the  plot  of  grass,  the  cedar  in  the  angle 
of  the  corner — among  these  familiar  things  memories 
must  throb  for  him  even  as  they  did  for  her.  Pamela 
sat  down  upon  the  parapet,  and,  leaning  over,  gazed 
into  the  torrent  far  below.  She  wished  him  to  take  his 
time.  She  had  a  thought  that  even  if  he  had  not  in 
his  mind  that  utterance  which  she  hoped  to  hear,  the 
recollection  of  those  other  days,  vividly  renewed, 
might  suggest  it.     And  in  a  moment  or  two  he  spoke. 

"  It  is  true,  mademoiselle,  that  I  was  of  service  to 
you  last  night?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Pamela,  gently;  "that  is  quite  true." 

"I  am  glad,"  he  continued.  "I  shall  have  that  to 
remember.  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  see  you 
often  any  more.  Very  likely  you  will  not  come  back 
to  Roquebrune — very  likely  I  shall  never  see  you 
again.  And  if  I  do  not,  I  should  like  you  to  know 
that  last  night  will  make  a  difference  to  me." 

He  was  now  speaking  with  a  simple  directness. 
Pamela  raised  her  face  towards  his.  He  could  see  that 
his  words  greatly  rejoiced  her;  a  very  tender  smile  was 
upon  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  shone.  There  were  tears 
in  them. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said. 

"  I  resented  your  coming  to  me  at  first,"  he  went  on. 
"I  was  a  fool;  I  am  now  most  grateful  that  you  did 
come.  I  learned  that  you  had  at  last  found  the  hap- 
piness which  I  think  you  have  always  deserved,    You 

366 


THE   TRUANTS 

know  I  have  always  thought  that  it  is  a  bad  thing 
when  such  a  one  as  you  is  wasted  upon  lonehness 
and  misery — the  world  is  not  so  rich  that  it  can 
afford  such  waste.  And  if  only  because  you  told  me 
that  a  change  had  come  for  you,  I  should  be  grateful 
for  the  visit  which  you  paid  me.  But  there  is  more. 
You  spoke  a  very  true  word  last  night  when  you  told 
me  it  was  a  help  to  be  needed  by  those  one  needs." 

"You  think  that,  too?"  said  Pamela. 

"Yes,  now  I  do,"  he  answered.  "It  will  always  be 
a  great  pride  to  me  that  you  needed  me.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  you  knocked  upon  my  door  one  dark 
night  in  great  distress.  I  shall  never  forget  your 
face,  as  I  saw  it  framed  in  the  hght  when  I  came  out 
into  the  porch.  I  shall  never  forget  that  you  stood 
within  my  room,  and  called  upon  me,  in  the  name  of 
our  old  comradeship,  to  rise  up  and  help  you.  I 
think  my  room  will  be  hallowed  by  that  recollection." 
And  he  lowered  his  voice  suddenly,  and  said:  "I 
think  I  shall  see  you  as  I  saw  you  when  I  opened  the 
door,  between  myself  and  the  threshold  of  the  wine- 
shop; that  is  what  I  meant  to  say." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and,  as  Pamela  took  it,  he 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said;  and,  turning  away  quickly,  he 
left  her  up  in  the  place  where  she  had  known  the  best 
of  him,  and  went  down  to  his  school-room  in  the  square 
of  Roquebrune.  Very  soon  the  sing-song  of  the  chil- 
dren's voices  was  droning  from  the  open  windows. 

Pamela  remained  upon  the  terrace.  The  breaking 
of  old  ties  is  always  a  melancholy  business,  and  here 
was  one  broken  to-day.  It  was  very  unlikely,  she 
thought,  that  she  would  ever  see  her  friend,  the  little 
school-master,  again.     She  would  be  returning  to  Eng- 

367 


THE   TRUANTS 

land  immediately,  and  she  would  not  come  back  to 
the  Villa  Pontignard. 

She  was  still  in  that  corner  of  the  garden  when  an- 
other visitor  called  upon  her.  She  heard  his  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  of  the  path,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Warris- 
den  approaching  her.  She  rose  from  the  parapet  and 
went  forward  to  meet  him.  She  understood  that  he 
had  come  with  his  old  question,  and  she  spoke  first. 
The  question  could  wait  just  for  a  Httle  while. 
,.    "You  have  seen  Tony?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  late  last  night,"  he  repHed.  "I  waited  at  the 
hotel  for  him.  He  said  nothing  more  than  good-night, 
and  went  at  once  to  his  room." 

"And  this  morning?" 

"This  morning,"  said  Warrisden,  "he  has  gone.  I 
did  not  see  him.  He  went  away  with  his  luggage  be- 
fore I  was  up,  and  he  left  no  message." 

Pamela  stood  thoughtful  and  silent. 

"It  is  the  best  thing  he  could  have  done,"  Warris- 
den continued;  "for  he  is  not  safe  in  France." 

"Not  safe?" 

"No.  Did  he  not  tell  you?  He  deserted  from  the 
French  Legion.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which  he 
could  reach  Roquebrune  by  the  date  you  named." 

Pamela  was  startled,  but  she  was  startled  into  ac- 
tivity. 

"Will  you  wait  for  me  here  ?"  she  said,  "  I  will  get 
my  hat." 

She  ran  into  the  villa,  and,  coming  out  again,  said: 
"Let  us  go  down  to  the  station." 

They  hurried  down  the  steep  flight  of  steps.  At 
the  station  Warrisden  asked:  "Shall  I  book  to  Monte 
Carlo?" 

"No;  to  Eze,"  she  replied. 

368 


THE  TRUANTS 

She  hardly  spoke  at  all  during  the  journey;  and 
Warrisden  kept  his  question  in  reserve— this  was 
plainly  no  time  to  utter  it.  Pamela  walked  at  once 
to  the  hotel. 

"Is  Lady  Stretton  in?"  she  asked;  and  the  porter 

replied: 

"  No,  madame.     She  left  for  England  an  hour  ago." 

"Alone?"  asked  Pamela. 

"No.     A  gentleman  came  and  took  her  away." 

Pamela  turned  towards  Warrisden  with  a  look  of 
great  joy  upon  her  face. 

"They  have  gone  together,"  she  cried.  "He  has 
taken  his  risks.  He  has  not  forgotten  that  lesson 
learned  on  the  North  Sea.  I  had  a  fear  this  morning 
that  he  had." 

"And  you?"  said  Warrisden,  putting  his  question, 

at  last. 

Pamela  moved  away  from  the  door  until  they  were 
out  of  earshot.     Then  she  said: 

"  I  will  take  my  risks,  too."  Her  eyes  dwelt  quietly 
upon  her  companion,  and  she  added:  "And  I  think  the 
risks  are    very  small." 

34 


XXXV 
THE   LITTLE   HOUSE   IN   DEANERY   STREET 

PAMELA  construed  the  departure  of  Tony  and 
his  wife  together  according  to  her  hopes.  They 
were  united  again.  She  was  content  with  that  fact, 
and  looked  no  further,  since  her  own  affairs  had  be- 
come of  an  engrossing  interest.  But  the  last  word 
has  not  been  said  about  the  Truants.  It  was  not, 
indeed,  until  the  greater  part  of  a  year  had  passed 
that  the  section  of  their  history  which  is  related  in 
this  book  reached  any  point  of  finality. 

In  the  early  days  of  January  the  Truants  arrived  in 
London  at  the  close  of  a  long  visit  to  Scotland.  They 
got  out  upon  Euston  platform,  and,  entering  their 
brougham,  drove  oflf.  They  had  not  driven  far  be- 
fore Millie  looked  out  of  the  window  and  started  for- 
ward with  her  hand  upon  the  check-string.  It  was 
dusk,  and  the  evening  was  not  clear.  But  she  saw, 
nevertheless,  that  the  coachman  had  turned  down  to 
the  left  among  the  squares  of  Bloomsbury,  and  that 
is  not  the  way  from  Euston  to  Regent's  Park.  She 
did  not  pull  the  check-string,  however.  She  looked 
curiously  at  Tony,  who  was  sitting  beside  her,  and 
then  leaned  back  in  the  carriage.  With  her  quick 
adaptability  she  had  fallen  into  a  habit  of  not  ques- 
tioning her  husband.  Since  the  night  in  the  south  of 
France  she  had  given  herself  into  his  hands  with  a  de- 
votion  which,   to   tell   the   truth,   had   something  of 

370 


THE   TRUANTS 

slavishness.  It  was  his  wish,  apparently,  that  the 
recollection  of  that  night  should  still  be  a  barrier  be- 
tween them,  hindering  them  from  anything  but  an  ex- 
change of  courtesies.  She  bowed  to  the  wish  without 
complaint.  To-night,  however,  as  they  drove  through 
the  unaccustomed  streets  there  rose  within  her  mind 
a  hope.  She  would  have  stifled  it,  dreading  disap- 
pointment; but  it  was  stronger  than  her  will.  More- 
over, it  received  each  minute  fresh  encouragement. 
The  brougham  crossed  Oxford  Street,  turned  down 
South  Audley  Street,  and  traversed  thence  into  Park 
Street.  MilHe  now  sat  forward  in  her  seat.  She 
glanced  at  her  husband.  Tony,  with  a  face  of  indif- 
ference, was  looking  out  of  the  window.  Yet  the 
wonderful  thing,  it  seemed,  was  coming  to  pass — nay, 
had  come  to  pass.  For  already  the  brougham  had 
stopped,  and  the  door  at  which  it  stopped  was  the 
door  of  the  little  house  in  Deanery  Street. 

Tony  turned  to  his  wife  with  a  smile. 

"Home!"  he  said. 

She  sat  there  incredulous,  even  though  the  look  of 
the  house,  the  windows,  the  very  pavement  were 
speaking  to  her  memories.  There  was  the  blank 
wall  on  the  north  side  which  her  drawing-room  window 
overlooked,  there  was  the  sharp  curve  of  the  street  into 
Park  Lane,  there  was  the  end  of  Dorchester  House. 
Here  the  happiest  years  of  her  life — yes,  and  of  Tony's, 
too,  had  been  passed.  She  had  known  that  to  be 
truth  for  a  long  while  now.  She  had  come  of  late  to 
think  that  they  were  the  only  really  happy  years  which 
had  fallen  to  her  lot.  The  memories  of  them  throbbed 
about  her  now  with  a  vividness  which  was  poignant. 

"Is  it  true?"  she  asked,  with  a  catch  of  her  breath, 
"Is  it  really  true,  Tony?" 

2,n 


THE   TRUANTS 

"Yes,  this  is  our  home." 

Millie  descended  from  the  carriage.  Tony  looked 
at  her  curiously.  This  sudden  arrival  at  the  new- 
home,  which  was  the  old,  had  proved  a  greater  shock 
to  her  than  he  had  expected.  For  a  little  while  after 
their  return  to  England  Millie  had  dwelt  upon  the 
words  which  Tony  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  Reserve  by 
the  sea.  He  had  dreamed  of  buying  the  house  in 
Deanery  Street,  and  of  resuming  there  the  life  which 
they  had  led  together  in  the  days  when  they  had 
been  good  friends  as  well  as  good  lovers.  That  dream 
for  a  time  she  had  made  her  own.  She  had  come  to 
long  for  its  fulfilment  as  she  had  never  longed  for 
anything  else  in  the  world;  she  had  beheved  that 
sooner  or  later  Tony  would  relent,  and  that  it  would 
be  fulfilled.  But  the  months  had  passed,  and  now, 
when  she  had  given  up  hope,  unexpectedly  it  had  been 
fulfilled.  She  stood  upon  the  pavement,  almost 
dazed. 

"You  never  said  a  word  of  what  you  meant  to  do," 
she  said,  with  a  smile,  as  though  excusing  herself  for 
her  unresponsive  manner.  The  door  was  open.  She 
went  into  the  house,  and  Tony  followed  her.  They 
mounted  the  stairs  into  the  drawing-room. 

"As  far  as  I  could,"  Tony  said,  "I  had  the  house 
furnished  just  as  it  used  to  be.  I  could  not  get  all 
the  pictures  which  we  once  had,  but  you  see  I  have 
done  my  best." 

Millie  looked  round  the  room.  There  was  the  piano 
standing  just  as  it  used  to  do;  the  carpet,  the  wall- 
paper were  all  of  the  old  pattern.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  never  left  the  house;  that  the  years  in 
Berkeley  Square  and  Regent's  Park  were  a  mere  night- 
mare from  which  she  had  just  awakened.    And  then  she 

372 


THE   TRUANTS 

looked  at  Tony.  No,  these  latter  years  had  been 
quite  real — he  bore  the  marks  of  them  upon  his  face. 
The  boyishness  had  gone.  No  doubt,  she  thought,  it 
was  the  same  with  her. 

Tony  stood  and  looked  at  her  with  an  eagerness 
which  she  did  not  understand. 

"Are  you  glad?"  he  asked,  earnestly.  "Millie,  are 
you  pleased  ?" 

She  stood  in  front  of  him  with  a  very  serious  face. 
Once  a  smile  brightened  it;  but  it  was  a  smile  of  doubt, 
of  question. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that  you  have 
been  very  kind.  You  have  done  this  to  please  me. 
But — "     And  her  voice  wavered  a  little. 

"Well?"  said  Tony. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  with  difficulty,  "I  am  not  sure 
that  I  can  endure  it,  unless  things  are  different  from 
what  they  have  been  lately.  I  shall  be  reminded 
every  minute  of  other  times,  and  the  comparison  be- 
tween those  times  and  the  present  will  be  very  painful. 
I  think  that  I  shall  be  very  unhappy,  much  more  un- 
happy than  I  have  ever  been,  even  lately." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  at  the  end.  The  little 
house  in  Deanery  Street,  even  in  her  dreams,  had 
been  no  more  than  a  symbol.  She  had  longed  for  it 
as  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the  complete  recon- 
ciliation on  which  her  heart  was  set.  But  to  have  the 
sign  and  to  know  that  it  signified  nothing — she  dreaded 
that  possibility  now.  Only  for  a  very  few  moments 
she  dreaded  it. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  endure  it,  Tony,"  she  said, 
sadly.  And  the  next  moment  his  arms  were  about 
her,  and  her  head  was  resting  against  his  breast. 

"Millie!"  he  cried,  in  alow  voice;  and  again,  "Millie!" 

373 


THE  TRUANTS 

Her  face  was  white,  her  eyelids  closed  over  her 
eyes.  Tony  thought  that  she  had  swooned.  But 
when  he  moved  her  hands  held  him  close  to  her,  held 
him  tightly,  as  though  she  dreaded  to  lose  him. 

"Millie,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  the  lights  in 
Oban  Bay?  And  the  gulls  calling  at  night  above  the 
islands?" 

"I  am  forgiven,  then?"  she  whispered;  and  he  an- 
swered only: 

"Hush!" 

But  the  one  word  was  enough. 


XXXVI 
THE   END 

TONY  wished  for  no  mention  of  the  word.  He 
had  not  brought  her  to  that  house  that  he  might 
forgive  her,  but  because  he  wanted  her  there.  If 
forgiveness  was  in  question,  there  was  much  to  be 
said  upon  her  side,  too.  He  was  to  blame,  as  Pamela 
had  written.  He  had  during  the  last  few  months  be- 
gun to  realize  the  justice  of  that  sentence  more  clearly 
than  he  had  done  even  when  the  letter  was  fresh  within 
his  thoughts. 

"I  have  learned  something,"  he  said  to  Millie, 
"which  I  might  have  known  before,  but  never  did. 
It  is  this:  Although  a  man  may  be  content  to  know 
that  love  exists,  that  is  not  the  case  with  women. 
They  want  the  love  expressed,  continually  expressed, 
not  necessarily  in  words,  but  in  a  hundred  little  ways. 
I  did  not  think  of  that.  There  was  the  mistake  I 
made:  I  left  you  alone  to  think  just  what  you  chose. 
Well,  that's  all  over  now.  I  bought  this  house  not 
merely  to  please  you,  but  as  much  to  please  myself; 
for  as  soon  as  I  understood  that,  after  all,  the  com- 
promise which  I  dreaded  need  not  be  our  lot — that, 
after  all,  the  life  together  of  which  I  used  to  dream  was 
possible,  was  within  arm's-reach  if  only  one  would  put 
out  an  arm  and  grasp  it  —  I  wanted  you  here.  As 
soon  as  I  was  sure,  quite  sure,  that  I  had  recaptured 
you,  I  wanted  you  here." 

375 


THE  TRUANTS 

He  spoke  with  passion,  holding  her  in  his  arms. 
Milhe  remained  quite  still  for  a  while,  and  then  she 
asked : 

"  Do  you  miss  the  Legion  ?  As  much  as  you  thought 
you  would — as  much  as  you  did  that  night  at  Eze?" 

He  answered,  "  No  " ;  and  spoke  the  truth.  On  that 
night  at  Eze  he  had  not  foreseen  the  outcome  of  his 
swift  return,  of  his  irruption  into  the  gayly  lighted 
room  murmurous  with  the  sea.  On  that  night  he  had 
revealed  himself  to  Millie,  and  the  revelation  had  been 
the  beginning  of  love  in  her  rather  than  its  resump- 
tion. This  he  had  come  to  understand,  and,  under- 
standing, could  reply  with  truth  that  he  did  not  miss 
the  Legion  as  he  had  thought  he  would.  There  were 
moments,  no  doubt,  when  the  sound  of  a  bugle  on  a 
still  morning  would  stir  him  to  a  sense  of  loss,  and  he 
would  fall  to  dreaming  of  Tavernay  and  Barbier,  and 
his  old  comrades,  and  the  menacing  silence  of  the 
Sahara.  At  times,  too,  the  yapping  of  dogs  in  the 
street  would  call  up  vividly  before  his  mind  the  pict- 
ure of  some  tent -village  in  Morocco  where  he  had 
camped.  Or  the  wind  roaring  among  trees  on  a  night 
of  storm  would  set  his  mind  wondering  whether  the 
ketch  Perseverance  was  heading  to  the  white-crested 
rollers,  close-reefed  between  the  Dogger  and  the  Fisker 
banks;  and  for  a  little  while  he  would  feel  the  savor 
of  the  brine  sharp  upon  his  lips,  and  longing  would  be 
busy  at  his  heart  —  for  the  Ishmaelite  cannot  easily 
become  a  stay-at-home.  These,  however,  were  but 
the  passing  moods. 

Of  one  other  character  who  took  an  important  if 
an  unobtrusive  part  in  shaping  the  fortunes  of  the 
Truants,  a  final  word  may  be  said.  A  glimpse  of  that 
man,  of  the  real  man  in  him,  was  vouchsafed  to  War- 

376 


THE   TRUANTS 

risden  two  summers  later.  It  happened  that  Warris- 
den  attended  a  pubHc  dinner  which  was  held  in  a  res- 
taurant in  Oxford  Street.  He  left  the  company  be- 
fore the  dinner  was  over,  since  he  intended  to  fetch 
his  wife,  Pamela,  who  was  on  that  June  evening  wit- 
nessing a  performance  of  "Rigoletto"  at  the  Opera- 
House  in  Covent  Garden.  Warrisden  rose  from  the 
table  and  slipped  out,  as  he  thought,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
but  on  descending  into  the  hall  he  found  th^t  he  had 
miscalculated  the  time.  It  was  as  yet  only  a  quarter 
to  the  hour,  and,  having  fifteen  minutes  to  spare,  he 
determined  to  walk.  The  night  was  hot;  he  threw  his 
overcoat  across  his  arm,  and,  turning  southward,  out 
of  Oxford  Street,  passed  down  a  narrow  road  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Drury  Lane.  In  those  days,  which 
were  not,  after  all,  so  very  distant  from  our  own,  the 
great  blocks  of  model  dwellings  had  not  been  as  yet 
erected;  squalid  courts  and  rookeries  opened  onto 
ill-lighted  passages;  the  houses  had  a  ruinous  and  a 
miserable  look.  There  were  few  people  abroad  as 
Warrisden  passed  through  the  quarter,  and  his  breast- 
plate of  white  shirt-front  made  him  a  conspicuous 
figure.  He  had  come  about  half  the  way  from  Oxford 
Street  when  he  saw  two  men  suddenly  emerge  from 
the  mouth  of  a  narrow  court  a  few  yards  in  front  of 
him.  The  two  men  were  speaking,  or  rather  shouting, 
at  each  other;  and  from  the  violence  of  their  gestures, 
no  less  than  from  the  abusive  nature  of  the  language 
which  they  used,  it  was  plain  that  they  were  quarrel- 
ling. Words  and  gestures  led  to  blows.  Warrisden 
saw  one  man  strike  the  other  and  fell  him  to  the  ground. 
In  an  instant  a  little  group  of  people  was  gathered 
about  the  combatants,  people  intensely  silent  and 
interested — the  sight-seers  of  the  London  streets,  who 

377 


THE   TRUANTS 

spring  from  nowhere  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  as 
though  they  had  been  waiting  in  some  secret  spot 
hard  by  for  just  this  particular  spectacle  in  this  par- 
ticular place.  Warrisden,  indeed,  was  wondering  care- 
lessly at  the  speed  with  which  the  small  crowd  had 
gathered  when  he  came  abreast  of  it.  He  stopped 
and  peered  over  the  shoulders  of  the  men  and  women 
in  front  of  him,  that  he  might  see  the  better.  The 
two  disputants  had  relapsed  apparently  into  mere 
vituperation.  Warrisden  pressed  forward,  and  those 
in  front  parted  and  made  way  for  him.  He  did  not, 
however,  take  advantage  of  the  deference  shown  to 
his  attire;  for  at  that  moment  a  voice  whispered  in 
his  ear: 

"You  had  better  slip  out.  This  row  is  got  up  for 
you." 

Warrisden  turned  upon  his  heel.  He  saw  a  short, 
stout,  meanly  dressed  man  of  an  elderly  appearance 
moving  away  from  his  side;  no  doubt  it  was  he  who 
had  warned  him.  Warrisden  took  the  advice,  all  the 
more  readily  because  he  perceived  that  the  group  was, 
as  it  were,  beginning  to  reform  itself,  with  him  as  the 
new  centre.  He  was,  however,  still  upon  the  out- 
skirts. He  pushed  quickly  out  into  the  open  street, 
crossed  the  road,  and  continued  on  his  way.  In  front 
of  him  he  saw  the  stout,  elderly  man,  and,  quickening 
his  pace,  he  caught  him  up. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,"  he  said,  "for  saving  me 
from  an  awkward  moment." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  stout  man;  and  Warrisden,  as 
he  heard  his  voice,  glanced  at  him  with  a  sudden  cu- 
riosity. But  his  hat  was  low  upon  his  brow  and  the 
street  was  dark.  "It  is  an  old  trick,  but  the  old 
tricks  are  the  tricks  which  succeed.     There  was  no 

378 


THE   TRUANTS 

real  quarrel  at  all.  Those  two  men  were  merely  pre- 
tending to  quarrel  in  order  to  attract  your  attention. 
You  were  seen  approaching — that  white  shirt-front 
naturally  inspired  hope.  In  another  minute  you  would 
have  been  hustled  down  the  court  and  into  one  of  the 
houses  at  the  end.  You  would  have  been  lucky  if, 
half  an  hour  later,  you  were  turned  out  into  the  street 
stripped  of  everything  of  value  you  possess,  half  naked 
and  half  dead  into  the  bargain.     Good-night!" 

The  little  man  crossed  the  road  abruptly.  It  was 
plain  that  he  needed  neither  thanks  nor  any  further 
conversation.  It  occurred,  indeed,  to  Warrisden  that 
he  was  deliberately  avoiding  conversation.  Warris- 
den, accordingly,  walked  on  to  the  Opera-House,  and, 
meeting  his  wife  in  the  vestibule,  told  her  this  story 
while  they  waited  for  their  brougham. 

As  they  drove  together  homeward,  he  added: 

"That  is  not  all,  Pamela.  I  can't  help  thinking — 
it  is  absurd,  of  course  —  and  yet,  I  don't  know;  but 
the  little  stout  man  reminded  me  very  much  of  some 
one  we  both  know." 

Pamela  turned  suddenly  towards  her  husband.  "Mr. 
Mudge?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Warrisden,  with  some  astonishment 
at  the  accuracy  of  her  guess.  "He  reminded  me  of 
Mudge." 

"It  was  Mr.  Mudge,"  she  said.  For  a  moment  or 
two  she  was  silent ;  then  she  let  her  hand  fall  upon  her 
husband's.  "He  was  a  very  good  friend  to  us,"  she 
said,  gently — "to  all  of  us." 


THE    END 


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